


Skin Deep

by vampaya



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Veela
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:30:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 49,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6977737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampaya/pseuds/vampaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If beauty is only skin deep, what's underneath? Fleur struggles to come to terms with her Veela heritage all while searching for her mate who is, by all means, rather oblivious. </p>
<p>"There is a price for everything, after all. With the Veela beauty, charm, and power came the Veela curse. It was in the blood, literally. Much like a parasite, the Veela fed on my energies and, in my current state of depression and exhaustion, I was at my weakest. My own blood ate away at me and destroyed me and rampaged out of control. At times, I would become so weak that my human skin would give way to scales and feathers, the features of my face would melt together to form a beak, and the intellect which I had taken so much care to hone all my life would break beneath basic animal rage. It was only a matter of time until everything broke to such an extent that the change would become irreversible and I would lose my human self forever to the Veela."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is a price for everything, and anyone who would dare to tell you otherwise is either a fool or in denial."

PROLOGUE  
FLEUR

 

There is a price for everything, and anyone who would dare to tell you otherwise is either a fool or in denial.

Beauty is a curse; the quest for it made in vain. Women across cultures and across time have destroyed themselves in the name of beauty. The ancient Chinese broke their daughters' feet and bound them while the Muggle women of today would be willing to cut their own faces and bodies open to rearrange them. At first, it was involuntary: women were subjected to painful beautification processes by custom, and to go against them was a crime punishable by exile or even death. Sometimes, especially recently among the Muggles, this self-mutilation has been completely voluntary.

I don't understand it, and I am glad for that. I don't think I want to understand it. Real beauty is inborn, not created. And real beauty comes at a price that no amount of money could ever afford.

I am Veela. The way I look was not my choice, was never my choice. It was never voluntary and if I could change it, I would.

I am not blessed with beauty, I am plagued by a curse and an illness. This fair hair that others so envy is not due to heredity or recessive genes, but because this dark Veela blood had begun to kill me before I was even born. I am half-dead; I could not keep colour if I were painted. “I was not touched by the Moon, and its love for me is not the reason for my palette. If anything, the Moon hates me. The Moon pulls at me like it pulls at the sea, and I am slave to its tide and tow. As the moon swells, I become weaker and sicker. The Veela awakens, making my heart race fit to burst out of my chest, my senses sharp to the point of pain, and my moods volatile.

There is no such thing as perfection or beauty, only the illusion of it.

What few perfect, precious things I had in my life were torn apart by the war- houses and property were destroyed, friendships ripped apart by death and anger, love lost in bitterness. I can't help but grimace when I realize that, at twenty-seven, I am already a divorcee. I am the "ex-wife", the former "love-of-his-life", "that-horrible-French-trollop-who-broke-my-little-Bill's-heart." Karma is a bitter potion to swallow, but I deserve all of it. After all, I was the one who said "yes" and insisted on "yes" even when the ponytailed ginger man with his crooked grin and fang earring was bitten by werewolf and consequently deformed.

There was a time when life was grand and, barring my illness, uncomplicated. I could have had anything and anyone I wanted with a flutter of my eyelashes and a twist of my pout. There's hardly any difference now, except that I seem to have very little desire to manipulate people anymore. I have learned since my younger days that there are more important things than to have men groveling at my feet. Still, I lingered on the memory of the power. I missed the rush of it. Before the war, I had only been denied once.

I was seventeen when I came to Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament. I saw her in the Great Hall with her heavily freckled, purple-faced, red-headed, ogling friend. I smiled as charmingly as I could at her when I asked for their bouillabaisse, but her face only twisted in disdain as she shot me a look of contempt like a pointed arrow aimed to kill. She huffed a reply at me, pushing the bowl in my direction with a pointed scowl. My eyes met hers briefly and I felt a shock as I realized that, somehow, they were the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen.

I returned that night to the Beauxbatons carriage, feeling dazed. I was intrigued, and that soon gave way to obsession. I wanted to be close to her. I needed her. I wanted her more than anything I had ever wanted.

I found myself all but stalking her, finding out everything that I could about her, Hermione Granger. The few times she and I spoke, I thought my heart was going to erupt out of my chest. I got closer and closer to her by means of the red-headed boy's brother. Bill was my excuse to talk to Ron, and Ron was my excuse to be near Hermione.

Eventually, I found myself much too close to Bill and, for a while, I could have loved him. Maybe I did, and maybe a part of me still does. He was dear to me, my best friend. He, like me, had a beast inside of him that he could not control- a beast that was his by blood and not by choice, one that made him ill and violent and not himself. Perhaps it was this that endeared Bill to me, that he could understand what it felt like to be only a part of yourself. I was content with him, for a while. I ignored Hermione as best I could without being rude when she visited the Weasleys or when we saw each other. I did my best not to prolong conversations and not to look into her eyes for too long. It was almost as if she were the Veela and not I, that she was the mirror to deflect my charm and stun me with hers, instead. I forgot about her and, for a while, I lived for Bill and for myself. I lived for the man who was a beast and he lived for me, and for all of the fights that I fought with myself to stop obsessing about Hermione, it was enough.

Whatever measure of happiness or self-beguiling contentment I had achieved shortly before and after my wedding was short-lived, at best.

The war was fought, and won. Both sides paid dearly for it but, ultimately, we won. Voldemort was defeated but the Weasleys were never the same. George became estranged after the death of his twin, and it was a shock to the entire family to, in a sense, lose both of the twins. Bill sank into a depression and became distant and the contentment faded, shattered like clay by all of the noise of the war and brushed away as if nothing more than dust. He changed and, as a result, so did I. I saw faults in him that I had ignored before. He left his dirty socks lying about the house, his shoes never matched his shirt, he never complimented me anymore, he was never home, he came home reeking of firewhiskey, he never spent time with me. I grew to dislike everything about him, from his overwhelmingly dark depression to his untidy hair and inability to ever shave his face closely enough. I hated when he neglected to take his potion as the full moon neared and he would come home, feral and practically rabid and mad with rage and lust. It was getting to be too much, and I realized that he was no longer enough. One by one, the thoughts of Hermione that I had repressed for so long began to rise to the surface like bubbles.

I began to imagine Bill with softer, less scarred features and with wavy brown hair instead of his straight red ponytail. I began to recall memories I had of Hermione, however fleeting, when living in the present with Bill; everything from the glare she shot me when we first met to her enduring indifference that only seemed to briefly subside when she took refuge during the war at the cottage Bill and I shared. I began to look for excuses to go visit The Burrow, saying I wanted to see Ginny or Ron or Molly when, really, I wanted to go to see if Hermione was there. I took trips to Diagon Alley, saying I was going to see George when really, I was hoping I'd run into her there. I said I'd go to the Ministry to visit Harry at the Auror's office when, instead, I was going to see if I could find Hermione anywhere. Thoughts of her consumed me like fire and I grew more and more reluctant to go home to Bill. The rift between us was growing and, eventually, we became much too aware of it.

The divorce, of course, was a surprise to everyone but the two of us. To us, it was inevitable and, ultimately, completely necessary. For the most part, it could even have been considered mutual. I admit, however, that I would not have taken no as an answer. When Bill returned to The Burrow, red-eyed and without his wedding ring, Ron clapped him on the back and all but poured firewhiskey down his older brother's throat, saying that he had no idea what he would do if Hermione ever broke up with him- she'd been his girlfriend for what felt like "forever." I suffered Molly Weasley's scathing looks for all of two days until I found myself wanting to hex her blind. I had no desire to justify my divorce to her, and so I left. She could try being married to a deadbeat, depressed, alcoholic half-werewolf if she liked and see how much she enjoyed it.

I spent nearly one year back in Paris, lingering at Muggle and wizard cafes alike, distancing myself from everything that I had come to know in England. I willed myself to forget the Weasleys and their fickle affections, especially Molly who, one day, would dote on you and then scorn you the next. Most importantly, I willed myself to forget Hermione and to abandon the chase that I had for so long wanted and denied myself. There was no chance, now. Surely she was settled with Ron and happy. I became ill and depressed and went home to my family, to my wise grandmother and my parents and my sister Gabrielle. They understood, of course, why I had become ill. When I was with Bill, my illness had been growing but I had turned a blind, content eye.

There is a price for everything, after all. With the Veela beauty, charm, and power came the Veela curse. It was in the blood, literally. Much like a parasite, the Veela fed on my energies and, in my current state of depression and exhaustion, I was at my weakest. My own blood ate away at me and destroyed me and rampaged out of control. At times, I would become so weak that my human skin would give way to scales and feathers, the features of my face would melt together to form a beak, and the intellect which I had taken so much care to hone all my life would break beneath basic animal rage. It was only a matter of time until everything broke to such an extent that the change would become irreversible and I would lose my human self forever to the Veela. When I asked my grandmother about a cure, I was a child. Her answer then was the same answer she gave me when, frustrated, I stormed into my mother's kitchen after a bout of coughing and slammed my hand into the table, knocking several stacked plates to the ground. The difference was that, this time, my grandmother kept her distance from me and eyed me warily and sadly instead of taking me into her arms and cooing into my ear like she had in my childhood.

"Love is the cure for all that ails you, my flower."

Ridiculous. Beyond ridiculous. Forget magic and even Muggle technology and damn the advancements in both. I was to believe that my illness, my weakness and frailty and increasingly worsening temper and sudden inability to control the Veela change, could only be helped by something as primitive and basic as love?

"I have already tried, grandmother!" I shouted, whirling around and pacing restlessly. "I have already tried and I have failed! I've been married, for god's sake!"

"Well, perhaps you married the wrong person," she said patiently.

I rolled my eyes, "Really?"

"You love someone else," my wrinkled grandmother said as nonchalantly as if she were telling me that it was cloudy outside.

I froze.

"What?"

She smiled, then, slowly and mysteriously like a cat.

"I am not a fool, darling. I've known all along that you did not love that Weasley boy. Your heart is elsewhere. Denying yourself what you wanted all along only made you sicker. I'm afraid that if you deny yourself for much longer, it will be much too late for you."

I sighed, rubbing my temples.

"What if she doesn't love me, grandmother? Or she can't?"

She smiled, perhaps a little sadly.

"Always so pessimistic, mon coeur," she replied, brushing her thumbs over my knuckles. "Go to her. Go back to London. You need her. You will never know unless you go. Being afraid is the worst reason to deny yourself love. And..."

"And?" I whispered.

My grandmother stepped closer to me, waving her wand and repairing the shattered plates before reaching up and take my face between her old, wizened hands.

"And I am afraid that I will lose you, my darling, to the curse to which all they who remain unloved lose themselves."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleur visits London and sees a familiar stranger.

 

**CHAPTER 1**

FLEUR

 

I received an owl from the Ministry of Magic in London, asking me to come as soon as was convenient for me (which, for the English, truly meant as soon as was convenient for them, which was immediately). It seemed as if the Minister was interested in offering me a position as an Auror. Laughing bitterly, I shrugged, packing my belongings with a wave of my wand. It was about time that that damned Ministry remembered what part I played in the war. I did not bother with a cloak or robes; for all that I had lost and suffered in battle, the Ministry certainly took their time in offering me so much as a thank you. Surely they did not expect me to pay them the courtesy of wearing dress robes to visit them at their beck and call. 

I apparated with a crack to London, pleased that my extensive practice of long-distance apparating had paid off. It was lucky that the Ministry owled me when they did, I suppose. I had been putting off going to London for the better part of a month, despite my grandmother's scathing looks and constant sermons. Wizards and witches turned to stare at me, whispering feverishly as I walked past. Diagon Alley had changed, but the noise was the same and the way people reacted to me was the same no matter where I went.

"It's _her_ ," I heard people hiss as I passed them.

I sighed, nudging my large sunglasses further up onto my nose and flicking my hair over my shoulder. Of course I was recognizable. Having been in the Triwizard Tournament and having fought in the war, coupled with being a Veela and, therefore, being very tall and very blonde made it a little difficult to be nondescript. Additionally, my overwhelmingly Muggle style of dress was enough to make me a beacon of abnormality. Soon enough, I found myself inside the Ministry and in front of the Minister, a balding and squat man who sweated and swooned when he looked at me. 

"My goodness," he stammered, "Bonjour, Mrs. Weasley."

 " _Delacour_ ," I corrected sharply. "Mademoiselle Delacour. Please, Minister, _do_ try to be current."

 "Right," he gulped, dabbing at his forehead and gesturing at an overstuffed armchair in front of his desk. "Mademoiselle Delacour. I'm terribly sorry. Please, have a seat."

 "Thank you," I said curtly, seating myself in the chair and crossing my legs almost immediately. "Fleur will suffice if nothing else...comes to mind quickly enough."

 I watched his eyes follow the motion of my legs and, irritated, I cleared my throat.

 "Merlin's beard, you are stunning," he mumbled.  

I glared at him and he turned an uneasy shade of scarlet.

"Goodness, I'm so sorry. I just can't seem to help myself!" he laughed nervously, plunking down gracelessly in his own chair and wringing his hands.

"It's nothing new to me, I assure you," I said dryly, looking around the room. "You requested my presence, Minister? Did you actually want to talk about anything important or am I here simply for you to ogle?"

He seemed slightly shocked by the frankness of my words, but his staring did not abate.

"Right," he murmured, dabbing at his gleaming forehead with a handkerchief. "I owled you to offer you a position as an Auror. You played a great part in the war against He-Who-"

"Voldemort," I drawled boredly. "He's gone now, you can say his name and it will not matter a thing, Monsieur. And it's about time the Ministry remembered that I was even in the war to begin with."

"Well, you see- we...we were just...back-logged and...." he floundered for words, unable to tear his eyes away from mine.

"Yes, well," I mocked. "I was beginning to worry that you people had forgotten about me, Minister, or that you had mistakenly listed me as a casualty of war. For all that you cared, I might have been."

"Mademoiselle, please! There was so much to be done, and-" 

"I am now twenty-seven, Minister. I was twenty, maybe twenty-one, when I fought in the war. I have crashed through a marriage and divorce in the time that it has taken your Ministry to do so much as bat an eyelash in my direction," I said coldly. "I am not interested in your excuses." 

"I certainly have no alibis for you, Mademoiselle Delacour, only apologies. If you are at all interested, there is a position as an Auror for you. You will be awarded with a medal, of course, for your unspeakably great services. Were you to accept, you would be paid a very generous wage and-"

"You know, Minister, that I lost a brother during the war?" 

"E-excuse me?"

"His name was Fred Weasley. A brother-in-law, but a brother nonetheless. He was very dear to me, Minister. One of the funniest people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting and one of the noblest I will ever meet in my life. I lost many dear, wonderful friends in the war, as well as a great deal of self-respect and dignity. I have done things I would never like to do again unless I must. I am not interested in knowing how much you are willing to pay me. I already have more money than I need."

"W-we would be h-honoured, Mademoiselle Delacour, to have you on our Auror Force and I am willing to meet your t-t-terms."

Shaking my head slightly with disgust, I cleared my throat so that he met my gaze.

"What I want, Minister," I began, "more than any medal or any amount of money, is for you to pay your long overdue respects to all the people who fought in the war for you, who saved you while you were hiding in your offices, who died and who suffered for you and have perhaps not heard a word of thanks from you until now, nearly six years after the fact."

"Y-yes," he gasped. "Anything!"

"And," I said levelly, "I would like a thank you."

"Thank you?" he asked, dumbfounded.

"Yes, Minister. A thank you. You know, Harry Potter was not the only one who fought Voldemort. So I would like to a personal thank you. From you. With a promise that you will do some thorough research in who exactly took part in the war and that you will, at your very lazy convenience, thank each of them. Individually. There are many unsung heroes who deserve at least a little tune, Minister."

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest, feeling more predatory and alive than I had in a while. There was something so wonderfully thrilling about calling this man's own ignorance to his attention and twisting his arm for it. The Veela in me had always encouraged a touch of sadism.

"Of course," he agreed eagerly. "You'll take the job?"

"I'd rather do this than tend to my family's vineyard, as lucrative and...exciting as it is," I sighed, arching an eyebrow at him. 

"Fantastic!" he cried, leaping to his feet. "Now, might I interest you in- oh, I can't believe my own boldness!- in a t-touch of early dinner to celebrate your new position?"

"No," I said coolly, rising fluidly. "You may not. Thank you, but I must decline. I have to look after finding a place to stay tonight. Your letter was...urgent."

He coughed awkwardly, "We've already arranged a flat for you, Mademoiselle. It has been paid for, courtesy of the Ministry. Our sources anticipated your ire and we sent our staff scurrying to find you a nice place to stay. We hope it is to your liking. It is not so far from Gringott's. I could escort you, if you like?"

He looked hopeful, like a puppy anticipating a biscuit and, sighing and accepting momentary defeat, I consented. There was no way that this man was going to leave me be until I agreed to give him a few more moments of my time. The walk to my new flat was tiring for me; long-distance apparating was exhausting and I was ill and needed to rest and take my potion desperately. I could feel my anger rising and I struggled to keep it down and under control, willing myself to think of possible ways to decorate the apartment instead of ways of strangling the Minister of Magic and getting away with it. He prattled on and on, sneaking less than discreet glances at me until, finally, we reached the building. He unlocked the door and opened it for me, handing me the key and following me inside.

The flat was large, with high ceilings and generous windows. Unfortunately, it was furnished with the style of furniture that, judging from the hideous and overstuffed armchair by the fireplace, the Minister himself had picked out. I could transfigure it easily enough.

"Well?" he pressed eagerly, beaming up at me. "Do you like it?"

"It will do," I said, flicking my wand to send my suitcases in the direction of my bedroom to unpack themselves. "Thank you. Now, if you don't mind, I really must unpack and get settled."

"How about a spot of tea?" he almost begged.

"No, thank you," I said firmly. "I am exhausted, Minister. I will see you at the Ministry at the beginning of next week. Tuesday, you said?"

"Yes," he said, looking a little dejected. "Tuesday it is, then. Good evening, Mademoiselle."

"Please call me Fleur," I replied tiredly.

 His eyes lit up as he said, "Good evening, Fleur."

 "Good evening, Minister," I sighed, closing the door in his face. "And good riddance."

 Groaning, I took a look at the furniture and muttered several incantations to permanently transfigure their shapes and colour, opting instead for a minimalist black leather set of chairs and sofas rather than the hideous floral-print Victorian styles from before. With a flick of my wand, the walls turned a rich, clay red and shelves appeared on the wall, lined with the books than I had magically shrunk to fit into my suitcases. Picture frames of different styles, colour, and sizes seemed to sprout into being on the wall above my fireplace, creating a pleasantly mismatched collage. Shortly after the picture frames grew to their full size, pictures of my family and friends walked back into their frames, some of them looking dissheveled and disgruntled and indignant. A four-year old Gabrielle stuck her tongue out at me and pouted.

I laughed, "Well, I'm sorry. There was little I could have done to make the trip any more comfortable for you, mon coeur."

I went into my bedroom, searching for my potion before settling into the windowseat. There was nothing I enjoyed about the potion. Tried as I might, there was no amount of bewitching that could have been done about the horrid flavour of it: it tasted as I imagined dragon dung would and burned like dragon fire (which I did not have to imagine at all, especially after the Triwizard Tournament) all the way down and even for some time after it settled. Whatever pain I was in, the potion made it worse for five minutes before soothing. It was a necessary evil, needed to keep the Veela in me drowsy and sated, muffling its kill drive and keeping it quiet so that I could function. Scowling, I choked it down and clenched my fists, screwing my eyes shut and tilting my head back and breathing shakily. I begged Merlin to let the pain pass quickly so that the already existing pain deep in my bones and body would go away, even if only for a little while. Long after I had swallowed, I felt the potion still trickling down my throat like tar, and a wave of nausea hit me like a wall. Tightening my fists, I fought the urge to vomit . It seemed as if years had passed until the waves of nausea and pain finally stopped pummeling me. Groaning, I lifted my face from my knees and looked around the room. My vision was hazy and my eyes felt as if they were vibrating in my head. 

"I will never get used to this," I said to no one.

It was still light outside by the time the aches had subsided completely. Standing shakily, I set out to find the nearest cafe, feeling as if I deserved at least a cup of coffee. Summertime in Diagon Alley meant that it was still bright as noon even at five o'clock. I did not bother to remove my sunglasses as I placed my order at the small corner cafe I strolled into, preferring to shield my eyes from the sun as well as to give myself a little bit of anonymity. Opting to sit outside, I set my cup of hazelnut coffee (no cream, no sugar) on the table and reached into my purse to fish out my cigarettes (another strange thing, like jeans, that I had learned mostly from Muggles- witches and wizards preferred pipes). I stuck one in my mouth and whisked my hair into a nonchalant and loose bun before pinching the tip of the cigarette between two of my fingers and lighting it with an incantation. I took a drag and after a few more, my nerves settled. I took my cup of coffee in my unoccupied left hand and took a sip, watching the crowd lazily as I pondered what more I could do for the flat to make it more comfortable, wondering if there was anything in Diagon Alley that I needed to buy. I had just lifted my cigarette to my lips for another drag when someone knocked into the back of my chair with enough force to make me choke on my inhale. Indignantly, I set my coffee down on the table and got to my feet, throwing my cigarette to the ground and crushing it with my boot as I whirled around to face the offender.

"Are you an imbecile or am I so hard to see that you-"

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry-"

"Watch where you're going-"

 "Blimey, you almost killed that woman-"

"My shoes!-"

I paused, feeling slightly disoriented. The offender was balancing a giant book in her arms and looking absolutely frazzled with her brown hair a scattered mess, just as I remembered almost always seeing her. Behind her were three men: a confused looking brunette with glasses and messy hair, a redhead who looked flustered, and a blonde with slicked back hair who was inspecting his shoes with worry. I pulled my sunglasses off and her beautiful eyes widened when they met mine.

"Hermione?" I gasped.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione runs into an old friend.

**CHAPTER 2**

HERMIONE

  

 

It was really beginning to irritate me that, as long ago as we broke up, Ron still took the liberty of inviting himself to dinner at my house.

 "Hey, 'Mione, what's for dinner?" he asked, stretching and scratching the back of his head. "I'm starving! Work was so long today, eh, Harry?"

"I don't know, Ron," I grated, shifting my giant law book to my other arm. "And even if I did, it wouldn't matter to you, because you're not invited."

_Honestly. Ex-boyfriends._

"Ooh, shot down, Weasley," Draco tutted. "She'll have none of that, no sir."

"Ah, shut up, Malfoy," Ron scowled. "Say, have you gained weight?"

Draco gasped, "Take that back, you gaybasher!"

Ron guffawed loudly, seizing Draco's shoulder and pulling him into a headlock. 

"I'll show you bashing, I will!" he roared playfully, his hand poised to ruffle Draco's immaculately maintained hair.

"Please, Ron," Harry groaned. "We'll never hear the end of it if you muss his hair."

"No, you most certainly will not!" Draco huffed, wrenching himself out of Ron's bear-like grasp. " _Animal_. _Un_ couth, _un_ tamed, completely _un_ refined. Honestly, I can't imagine what makes you think that such behaviour..."

I sighed, tuning out the rest of Draco's lecture. It still surprised me sometimes that he suddenly reappeared and segued into our group. Most surprising was that he was gay. Well, admittedly, that was never much of a surprise to me. The amount of time that he had always spent on his hair was a definite tip-off. Most surprising, really, was the fact that Harry was absolutely nutters about Draco and that they had become lovers and were inseparable. They were an odd couple, Harry and Draco, with Harry being a little oblivious and overly-friendly and Draco being a little bitchy and flamboyant. But they were happy together and, as much as they hated each other when we were younger, they got on amazingly well. Ron was, at first, a little offended that he had been usurped as Harry's favourite guy but eventually came to the appallingly slow conclusion that it was different since Draco was "basically just a girl with nuts, eh?" 

"All right! Merlin, I'm sorry. Harry, will you shut him up, please?" Ron cried, exasperated. 

"Draco, really," Harry said, patting his lover on the arm to placate him. "Settle down. Don't make a scene. You know that Ron doesn't know any better."

We were just nearing a cafe and my stomach grumbled, reminding me that that cafe had wonderful scones.

"It's true, Draco," I grumbled. "He's like a toddler, really. Has no idea what's ever going on and what's alright and what isn't."

"Oy! That's not true!" Ron protested, shoving me and sending me stumbling.

"Ronald, you idiot! You don't just shove people like that! Look at you, you're five times her size, at least!" Draco scolded, all of them watching in horror as I stumbled into the back of a woman's chair.

Thankfully, I was able to stop myself at least a little to prevent a full-force collision. Still, I heard her choke and cough. Before I knew it, she had whirled around in anger, no doubt, to tell me off. I had just shot back to my feet after bending down to pick up my book and to watch her crush her cigarette beneath her very intimidatingly stylish black boot when she opened her mouth.

"Are you an imbecile or am I so hard to see that you-"

Her voice was accented, but I was so humiliated that an apology came flying out of my mouth before I could stop to analyze exactly what part of France produced such a rolling purr.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry-" I stammered.

"Watch where you're going-" Harry began.

"Blimey, you almost killed that woman-" Ron shouted. 

"My shoes!" Draco wailed, woefully eyeing his shoes where Ron had trodden upon them during the commotion.

The woman in front of me was tall and slender, modelesque in stature and dressed just as well. Her hair was a startling shade of silvery-blonde and she was beautiful, from what I could see of her face behind her large sunglasses. She froze, studying the four of us intently, and a strange feeling seized me as I recognized the shape of her lips just as she pulled off her sunglasses. Her eyes met mine and, somewhere, I felt a feeling that must have been vaguely similar to suffocating. It was strangely pleasant. My body felt warm but cold, alive but numb, close but far, far away. 

"Hermione?" she asked, surprised.

I swallowed hard and looked up. Her eyes were blue. A beautiful, endless, cold, bottomless blue like an unpolluted ocean with a veil of ice just over the surface. There was nobody but _her_ who would have such startlingly crystalline blue eyes of an unearthly hue. 

"Fleur," I choked, hugging my book closer to my chest for comfort. 

It was heavy and served as an anchor, which was good because I would have run otherwise. Even after all of these years and after finding out that she really was just a normal person, I still found Fleur unnaturally intimidating and was unreasonably terrified of her. There was something about her that made my skin tingle in an odd way. She smiled- a small quirk of the lips rather than her full smile- and a lump appeared in my throat. I was always so uneasy around her.

_Why do I get so nervous every time I see you?_

"Hermione," she repeated, still looking as flabbergasted as before. 

"Hi," I said, awkwardly shifting my book so that she could lean in to kiss each cheek as was customary for her to do. 

She leaned in to quickly kiss Harry, Draco, and Ron. Ron blushed, looking more than awkward.

"Hey, Fleur," he said gruffly, turning an alarming shade of vermilion.

I swallowed hard, so flustered and embarrassed by the fall that my own face must have turned an equally alarming shade of scarlet.

_Thrall. It's the Veela thrall. Charm. Power. Magic. Whatever it is._

"Ronald," she said softly, tutting before hugging him. "Mon Dieu, you're even bigger than Charlie now. How is your mother?"

"She's alright," he answered. "Dad's alright, too. Lost a bit of hair, but what can you do?"

 "And Ginny?" 

"Good, she's playing for the Holyhead Harpies. Always kicked my arse at Quidditch, she did."

"How is George?" she asked timidly. 

Ron's face darkened and he swallowed a lump in his throat.

"He's doin' alright. Much better, really. Still gets a bit down sometimes, but not nearly as bad as he used to be at all."

"Good," Fleur sighed. "Thank Merlin. That's so good to hear."

The conversation between them halted suddenly and Ron shifted uncomfortably.

"And Bill?" she asked tightly.

I watched her jaw square and I watched Ron quell beneath her stare and blush and stammer.

"Still drunk, mostly," he shrugged.

Fleur shook her head before turning back to the rest of us. My hands began to shake and I felt cold suddenly; I looked around wildly, prepared to snatch my wand out of my purse lest dementors were skulking around. There were none. Of course there weren't- it was bright and sunny and beautiful outside.

_Veela magic. Deep breath, Granger. You're alright._

I took a shaky breath, clutching my book tighter to my chest and reminding myself that I'd read several books about magical creatures, Veela included. I rattled off memorized sentences silently in my head: _"Veela posses a charm much like a Siren Song, an ancient magic that act as both lure and stunner to humans so that Veela can prey upon them. Men are especially susceptible to the charm, but women are not immune. Veela are known to reflexively send bursts of this magic out when they are angry, injured, or otherwise emotionally unstable. Ways of recognizing a Veela are by their appearance: beautiful women around whom others seems to be unable to think clearly. Veela are shapeshifters, and pass from their human bodies to their Veela form, which is to be recognized by its dark black or brown feathers and scales (brindle is rarer but still occurs), beak, and claws. They are able to perform wandless magic and send incendiary balls of energy from their hands."_

_Magic. That's what it is. You can do magic too. Deep breath. Shake it off. You've read books about this._

"I heard that you got an Auror position from the Minister," Harry said suddenly. "I was just thinking about you. We heard today. Congratulations! Guess Ron and I will be seeing you at work."

Fleur laughed dryly, "Well, it was about time they said anything at all to me, no?"

"Oh, the Ministry's full of the slowest buggers I've ever seen in my life," Draco snorted. "Reprehensible, really. Can't stand them."

"Agreed," Fleur chuckled, looking at the other blonde and smiling.

" _You have amazing teeth_ ," I wanted to gush.

  _That wouldn't be so bad, right? I mean, both of my parents are dentists. It's only normal that I'd take notice of other people's teeth, especially after what my parents made me endure with mine...It's perfectly normal. They're like...stars in her mouth. Merlin._ _What's wrong with me?_

"Where are you headed?" she asked, twirling the stem of her sunglasses between her abnormally beautiful fingertips.

I wanted to slap myself.

_Get a grip, Granger. She's your ex-boyfriend's brother's ex-wife, not some celebrity. What, do you have a crush on her or something? No. Of course not. Don't be stupid. I like men. You like men. It's her Veela magic; she took you by surprise. Get a grip._

"Hermione, darling, have you become mute?" Draco demanded, elbowing me.

"I-what? No," I struggled to say. 

"That's a yes. We were just on our way home, really. Ron was trying to weasel a meal out of Hermione," Draco said, sneering at Ron. "Weasel King. Never changed, eh, Ronnie?" 

"Shut it, Malfoy," Ron grunted.

Ron muttered something obscene under his breath, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. 

"Fleur, darling, we must catch up! Let's do dinner soon!" Draco chirped, clasping her hands.

"How about tonight?" Harry suggested suddenly.

"That'd be awesome! Let's go to-" Ron exclaimed, but was silenced by a sharp look from Draco.

"I mean, we don't want to be a bother," Harry said quickly. "You must still have so much settling in to do."

Fleur smiled and I smiled (grimaced, really), trying to ignore the butterflies that had suddenly come to life inside my stomach and begun to swarm out of control, fluttering into my lungs and making it difficult to breathe. It happened every time I saw her. I've known her for years and had even made my way past the wall she erected between herself and most people. I had come to see that Fleur, despite her charm and bravado and supposed haughty pride, was really very nice, if a bit aloof. She was intelligent and eloquent, articulate in ways that amazed me even now. She was surprisingly kind and very understanding (sometimes, and only toward people she liked) and, astoundingly enough, a little reclusive at times; I had been wrong to assume that she loved all the attention she got. She was a real person- a very real person- but she was beautiful in a very unreal way. I knew her quite well, but I never knew what it was about her that made my skin prickle and made me trip over my own tongue and say the absolute opposite of what I meant. She was perfect, and part of me resented her for that. I resented the effortlessness with which she approached everything, and her occasional stand-offishness that led to her infamous coldness.

There was something about her that set me on an unpleasant edge. Maybe it was that, along with being so beautiful it turned people stupid and being so smart that it was intimidating and having more money than god, Fleur was afforded the luxury of being both beauty and beast. Not only did her magical bloodline bless her with outrageous beauty, but it gave her a gauze of mystery and danger as well. She was dangerous. I wasn't sure whether she had any Veela physical prowess, but her walk was tinged with the implication of it, and it was intimidating. Beautiful enough to be worshipped but powerful enough to turn away anyone who displeased her, she was able to turn, twist, and manipulate nearly anyone around her. She was able to flip flop between savagery and snootiness, a level of freedom and control that most people were never able to experience. What she was depended on her mood, it seemed. I envied her self-control and self-awareness and self-confidence. 

_And her legs. She has fantastic legs. They just never end. Miles and miles of legs._

I shook my head.

_Magic. Get it together, Granger._

 "It's not a bother at all," she said graciously. "I insist. I have plenty of wine from my family's vineyard. We can buy something and take it back to my flat. It could be like a housewarming party."

"Oh, darling, you had me at 'wine'," Draco giggled, linking his arm through hers and walking with her ahead of everyone else toward her new apartment.

As we walked, I eyed Fleur warily, wondering if part-Veela could throw fireballs from their hands like the Veela from the Quidditch World Cup did. Very little was known about Veela not only because they are notoriously elusive, but also because those who researched them often fell under their thrall and were obliviated and sent away with modified memories, killed (some Veela attack sites show that the body was more often than not killed by magic and not by animal rage, although a few cases showed that the body was physically attacked and even fed upon and, in very rare instances, stripped to the bone). The most dangerous thing about them was their unpredictability: there simply wasn't enough data and research to be able to generate any sort of number to estimate the ratio between obliviated victims, attack victims, and mates (in the case that the person was neither wiped of their memories or eaten, it seemed as if they became the Veela's mate). It made no sense. 

 _Obliviate, attack, or mate? What kind of defense mechanism is that?_  

Wild Veela are much more ferocious than their more more docile part-Veela cousins, but that isn't to say that a part-Veela isn't capable of such atrocities. Much like vampires and werewolves, most part-Veela and Veela are perfectly capable of living among wizards, witches, and even Muggles; only Veela, vampires, and werewolves who do not resist their own animal nature are dangerous. In truth, nobody even knew what kind of power part-Veela possessed. I certainly didn't know Fleur well enough to evaluate what benefits other than absurdly good looks she got from her heritage. There was no proof that being part-Veela made her any physically stronger or faster than any witch or wizard, and nobody knew if part-Veela could transform although many specialists have theorized that they could not because most part-werewolves could not transform. It made sense that the far-removed descendants of a magical creature would retain its basic attributes but none of its power. Fleur certainly retained the basic attributes, but I couldn't speak about the power. I simply didn't know.

_Still, though. That thrall is like being Stupefied._

 

\---

 

On the way there, I vaguely remember stopping at a restaurant and ordering our dinners to go, waiting and listening to their idle chit-chat, and then walking back to Fleur's new flat. Inside, it was beautiful and spacious, minimalist and clean but also sleek, stylish, and warm. It suited her. She excused herself and retreated to retrieve the wine, but not before waving her wand and enchanting her plates and cutlery to set places at the dining table. I counted the tines on the forks obsessively to comfort myself, to give my brain something to do other than buzz loudly in my head like an alarm clock that been ignored for too long. 

"Incendio," Harry mumbled, and several candles around the flat lit themselves.

"This place is amazing," Draco called to her. "I love what you've done with it." 

"Thank you," she laughed back. "It was hideous when I got here."

"Oh, I don't doubt that," he clucked before turning to me with a scrutinizing stare. "I'm sorry, but have you swallowed your tongue or something?"

"Draco," I hissed warningly. 

He smirked, pinching my cheek. I flushed, rubbing the sore spot and glaring at him. 

"I know, darling. It's almost adorable," he teased.

"What is?" I demanded, crossing my arms defensively across my chest. 

He laughed, "Why, that you've got a little crush on her, of course. I mean, what am I to assume? You turn beet red every time she so much as breathes in your direction."

"I do not!," I gasped, horrified. "I'm going to crush your head with The Illegalities and Consequent Repercussions of Using Encroachment Charms to Magically Steal Property for even suggesting that, I swear! I-I-I'm not like that! Don't you dare say a word!"

"Not a word," he promised, batting his eyelashes. "And I can't believe you actually _know_ and are able to say the title of that monstrous book you've been lugging around. I'm smart enough to know better than to speak out of turn when you're carrying something so heavy and bludgeon-like. I can't say much for your idiot loverboy over there, though. He doesn't seem to mind being a drooling idiot, and I'm surprised he hasn't slobbered all over her yet."

Draco jerked his head toward Ron, who was grinning lopsidedly and stroking the arm of the sofa he was sitting in. 

"She looks great, huh?" he gushed. "Balls! She looks fantastic! I can't...wow. Bill, wow. What a loss. I can't believe that he had her and just...lost her. Bloody hell."

"You're blathering, sweetheart," Draco drawled.

"She does look really good," Harry agreed. "I mean...wow. I agree. She looks...amazing. God. She's got legs for days."

"Excuse me?" Draco huffed, looking harassed.

_It's true, though. They really do go on for days._

"I love you!" Harry trilled nervously, coughing and then shoving his hands deep into his pockets and finding an interesting spot on the wall to stare at.

"That's what I thought," the blonde sniffed. "Although I have to agree: she looks fantastic. And, judging by her dumb silence, we can all assume that Hermhomo over there agrees."

"That's a terrible nickname," I tutted at him. "Hermhomo. Honestly, Draco? That's not even clever. It doesn't even sound anything like 'Hermione'. I thought 'Lesbione' was better. As good as it gets, anyway, when taking into consideration the fact that I'm not even gay."

"Oh, Merlin! That one's brilliant!" he chuckled. "When did I ever call you Lesbione? And why did I ever stop?"

I sighed, "It wasn't you. It was Ginny who started it after she walked in on me and Lavender kissing in the Gryffindor Tower girls' room during our seventh year. She followed me about for days and said, 'Ooh, Icky Ronnie turned Hermione into a Lesbione'. Really, so childish. Lavender just...leapt on me. What was I to do?"

_But I didn't exactly shove her away, now did I? Oh, now I'm just being silly. Everyone experiments at some point or another. ...Right? Right. Of course they do._

"It turns out, she just wanted some tips on how to snog properly," I snorted, scoffing to hide my stammer. "She should've asked Parvati; I'm sure she would have had much more advice."

Ron purpled and grunted something mostly unintelligible, but that sounded faintly like an assertion of his manliness. 

"It would make better sense if we'd broken up because you were a lesbian," he muttered. "Don't think I would've minded that as much."

"But I'm not," I corrected. "You're just insufferable."

"I have the wine," came a voice at my shoulder, a low purr that sent a ripple of shivers racing up my spine.

I choked, coughing loudly to mask the whimper struggling to escape my throat. I was at once immersed in shame and my ever-present (if somewhat dulled) dislike for her Fleur. My dislike was, perhaps, caused by nothing more than jealousy; how could it possibly be fair that one person be so perfect? Although, to be completely honest myself, my dislike was also loaded with the indignation that came with years of watching even the strongest of men smoulder and melt beneath her gaze. It was so effortless for her and, in a way, I felt sorry for her victims; they were so easily manipulated.  It was as annoying as it was sad to watch, really; men were as helpless beneath her stare as wheat to the wind. Fleur had few qualms about using her charm to her advantage, and that annoyed me. It was as if she had a thousand unfair advantages over everyone in everything. She floated by so easily, almost too easily. Naturally, I was jealous. Why wouldn't I be? She was tall, svelte, beautiful, and smart - she could probably melt the coldest of hearts with just a flutter of her eyelashes. She was manipulative; I'd seen her do it before. 

_Veela instinct. It's in her nature to be a manipulative trollop._

I cast a glance at her bookshelves, lined with a mish-mosh of books, running the gamut from Muggle literature like The Aeneid in its original Greek to spellbooks in Mermish, Runes, French, English, Middle English, Arabic, and more. Among them were less intellectually high-browed books, like cookbooks by witches and wizards and some older ones that looked as if they were family heirlooms. I would be damned if she didn't have a brain as astounding as her face, and it made me a little sick how perfect she was. I was as irritated by her snobbish taste in books as I was impressed. 

"Oh, Fleur," Draco clucked. "Just one bottle?"

She laughed and I wondered why I felt like my dignity had fled through the window.

"It is enchanted, don't worry. It refills."

Dinner was excruciating. I'd shared many a meal with Fleur before in the years we'd known each other, but in the past she had been at Bill's side and I at Ron's. Now, I was seated beside her, with Ron at the foot of the table and to my right, and Draco and Harry beside each other opposite us. I could have sworn that the inside of my mouth was on fire and that I was breathing flame, and wondered how much or how little it had to do with the horseradish sauce on my entree. The wine flowed, and I gulped it down to keep my mouth busy. I wanted to yell at Ron to stop staring at her like she was naked and covered in chocolate because I almost felt humiliated for him. Although I can only imagine how many hearts would stop if that were to ever truly happen; sometimes I think that she could have brought Voldemort to his knees if she'd approached him that way.

_But why am I thinking about her naked and covered in chocolate?_

"'Mione, you're slamming down that wine like there's no tomorrow," Ron quipped, quirking an eyebrow at me and mumbling around half a mouthful of steak.

"Swallow before you speak, Ronald," I corrected. "And who knows, maybe there won't be a tomorrow."

_Magic. Magic, magic, magic. There has to be some sort of counter-spell for all of this Veela nonsense. This is ridiculous._

"Ah, of course there will be!" he bellowed, swigging from his own wine glass. "There'll be plenty of tomorrows."

"Well, you're either a wino, hypocrite, or both, because you're not exactly pacing yourself, either," I sniped, cutting into my chicken with a vengeance and promising myself to dig into my books to see if I could find a counter to Fleur's charm.

Fleur chuckled, "You certainly fight like an old married couple."

"Ah, no, we're definitely not married," Ron said quickly. "Didn't work out. Y'see, Hermione-"

"Really just couldn't do it anymore," I interjected, grinding Ron's toe with my heel under the table and ignore his squawk of pain, interrupting him before he could start to overshare or badmouth me. "It just wasn't working. You know, of course, Fleur, how difficult the Weasley men are."

She rolled her eyes, "But of course. Hard-headed, hot-headed, and insistent. And, maybe I speak only for Bill, but...far from being great lovers."

Draco snorted into his salad and Harry clapped him on the back.

"Really?" Draco all but shrieked, voice rising in pitch. "Bill's no good in the sack?"

"He would be good," Fleur laughed lightly, "if I enjoyed being manhandled all the time. He lacked a certain...finesse that I craved."

I blushed just as Ron stammered, "We Weasleys are just...warriors in bed!"

"Hardly," I shot back. "If I wanted to feel like my life were in danger every time I were to have sex, Ronald, I'd rather go bed Grawp. At least he'd have an excuse."

"You weren't complaining at the time!" Ron whined. "I thought it was at least...okay for you."

"Men don't understand women," Fleur intoned calmly, swirling wine in circles in her glass. 

"No, we certainly don't," Harry agreed. "S'why I gave up."

"And I'm glad you did, my boy," Draco chortled, squeezing Harry's arm affectionately as they grinned at each other.

"Most men do not understand that there is no need to be rough all the time," Fleur continued, and I nodded. "With women, everything is better. They are softer and gentler and actually know where the clitoris is. Bill always insisted that its existence was debatable, like the Crumple-Horned Snorkack."

A piece of chicken twisted sideways in my throat in mid-swallow and I coughed loudly, groping for my wine glass to slug down a gulp to force the offending chunk down. The mouthful of wine hit me suddenly and I reeled a little, feeling heady and warm. Fleur had always been very open and forthcoming about all things among friends and, being a sexual being, was rather unapologetic about how sexual she was. This particular conversation, however, was a surprise to me. Thoughts of a frustrated Fleur on her back with her hair splashed against the shadowed sheets, as bright and silvery as unicorn blood on the forest floor, and a clueless Bill kissing along her smooth, pale thighs assailed my mind. I could practically hear her breathing, could practically feel her winter-wheat hair tangled with his fiery ponytail. I wanted to scream from frustration or hyperventilate. Or both. 

_This is just stupid. There have to be some regulations about this Veela magic!_

"I'm sorry," Fleur laughed. "I was too crude?"

"No," I gasped. "No, not at all. I just...chicken. Big bite."

I slapped myself inwardly again, ashamed of how unable to speak I was becoming.

"So, Fleur," Draco began, looking absolutely serpentine and very pleased with himself, "do you have much experience with women, then?"

"I have...enough," she said, eyes sparkling with amusement. "A woman knows a woman's body better than any man could ever hope to."

The image in my mind shifted to Fleur squirming underneath an anonymous woman's grasp, her long fingers tangled in long, thick hair. 

_Absurd._

Draco smirked, "So you like both, eh??

I bit back the urge to leap across the table and strangle Draco (if only for the way he was leering at me) and opted to chug my wine instead, watching with mingled apprehension and relief as the wine bottle floated toward my glass, tipped itself over, and refilled it. I was getting very hot, and the direction in which the conversation was turning was doing little to assuage my growing discomfort.

 _Magic_. _Deep breath. Magic. Deep breath. Think about kittens. Deep breath. Kittens._

"I suppose," she shrugged. "With a strong preference to the fairer sex, I must admit."

"So Bill was...?" Harry asked, looking curious.

_Kittens._

Ron leaned in, brow furrowed, looking more intent and studious than I had ever seen him look in all the time I'd known him. He looked like he wished he could take notes.

"Bill was a good man but, ultimately, wrong for me. I think, near the end, that he and I realized that it was no longer working."

"Did you love him?" Ron wondered innocently.

Fleur paused before answering, eyes flashing.

"I loved him. Of course I loved him. I loved him very much. But things changed between us; he changed, and so did I. Maybe we rushed into the relationship, and even the engagement and the marriage. But back then, we all thought we were going to die the next day, no? Why not rush? It was a hard time, and neither of us wanted to be alone. It did not last. It was more of a marriage of convenience, at least for me. The war just too much. And seeing as how I did not die, I had no reason to force myself to hold on to something I no longer wanted. Now, I need something more challenging, more lasting- less perishable, if you will," she said bluntly.

"And you prefer women, now?" Draco pressed, peering at her thoughtfully and nudging my calf with his toes.

"I always have," Fleur admitted unabashedly, sipping at her wine.

_Kittens. Kittens. Kittens._

My stomach dropped and Draco smirked again.

_Kittens. Cats. Cat. Crookshanks. Crookshanks playing with yarn. Crookshanks curled up on the rug in front of the hearth. Crookshanks coughing up fur balls. Crookshanks mutilating his scratching post. Crookshanks mutilating my favourite arm chair. Crookshanks saying hello, rubbing up against my legs. Legs. Fleur's legs. Oh, bollocks._

I reached for a dinner roll and bit into it with a bit more vigor than I ought to have done and bit sharply into my tongue, eliciting a cough and a yelp. Harry turned to me, alarmed, mouthing, "Are you okay?"

"I have to feed Crookshanks!" I blurted lamely. "I-I just remembered."

Ron stared at me strangely, an eyebrow creeping up his forehead as he chewed furiously on a mouthful of meat.

"That cat's as fat as anything I've ever seen," he laughed. "If anything, you overfeed him. He'll be fine"

" _Anyway!_ " Draco chirped pointedly. "You know what, I've a girl friend who's a little bit curious, I think, and she- ow!"

I smiled sweetly and tucked my leg back behind the leg of my chair, pulling it away from Draco after I kicked him swiftly in the shin. Fleur raised her eyebrows in question. I shot Draco a dangerous glare.

"Bit my tongue," Draco grumbled. "No worries."

"You really ought to mind that tongue of yours, Draco," I said loudly, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Thank you, _sweetheart_ ," he hissed, squinting back.

 

\---

 

If dinner was a trial, then dessert was the jail time and execution. I lost count of the glasses of wine I'd had and of the times that the enchanted bottle had refilled itself and made its way toward me. Sitting on Fleur's black leather couches was agonizing, feeling the unbelievably smooth and almost buttery material beneath my fingertips. My drunken mind had come to the conclusion that her skin must have felt even softer than the leather. My mind wandered far, far away from kittens and cats and Crookshanks.

"That restaurant is really generous with the coffee liqueur in their tiramisu," Draco giggled.

"You lush," Harry quipped, slipping an arm over Draco's slim shoulders.

Draco laughed drunkenly, a wine blush staining his fair cheeks as he allowed his head to flop back onto Harry's chest.

"Cheers," he said lazily.

Ron was nursing yet another glass of wine, which looked ridiculously miniscule in his giant hands. 

"We Weasleys just haven't got any luck with women, I guess," he sighed woefully. "They're all either gay or mental."

"Or perfectly reasonable, nice, smart girls," I said loudly, slurring a little. "You just...you're mad, is what you are. Barking. Just because I broke up with you doesn't make me crazy!"

I paused, my head spinning.

"Or gay," I added, perhaps a little too late. 

Fleur quirked a delicate eyebrow at me, tugging my empty wineglass from my hands and setting it on the coffee table.

"Maybe you've had a bit too much," she said lightly, pressing a cool palm to my burning cheek.

"I think we're all a little less than sober," Harry yawned, eyeing us blearily through his glasses which were slightly askew.

"I'm a lot less than sober," Ron slurred. "I think I had two bottles by meself."

"Because you're a _bear_ , darling," Draco chuckled. "And to think, you used to be so skinny. Good thing you've filled out; I was always worried you'd snap in the wind."

Silence fell over us for a moment before Draco burst into wild laughter.

"Oh my god," he cackled. "I just remembered how ridiculous you looked at the Yule Ball in those hideously frilly dress robes. You looked like some sort of magenta maypole decorated by a blind madman."

"At least my date didn't look like a pug," Ron shot back, blushing as he remembered the itchy frills. "Hermione looked great."

"And it only took hours and hours of preparation and several bottles of Sleekeazy's to get you to notice that I even had tits," I laughed. "Cheers, Ron. Good on you. And I wasn't your date, if you remember. I went with Viktor."

Ron glowered for a moment, grumbling something incoherent to himself before gulping down still more wine. Fleur reached up to play with my hair, tugging gently on a curl to watch it bounce.

"It's true," she hummed. "You looked beautiful that night."

I blushed, resisting the urge to lean into her touch.

_Also perfectly normal. Girls like having their hair touched. It's normal._

"Merlin, please. I felt like I had no business being at that ball before I even saw you. You were just... It doesn't make sense even now how good you looked, how good you still look. Even if I found you in a gutter tomorrow, you'd still be the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

The wine was making my tongue loose and I bit it as she smiled, standing and stretching her legs. 

_Where did that come from? Why did I say that? That was stupid. What a stupid thing to say. I just implied that I'd like to find her dead. What's wrong with me? Now they're going to think I'm some sort of creepy lesbian necrophile._

"Thank you, Hermione. You are much too kind," she said calmly.

" _I'm not a lesbian!_ " I wanted to yell, but didn't.

Instead, I glanced at a clock on the wall and said, "Oh, goodness, the time."

"Ah, yes, the time," Fleur exclaimed, looking genuinely surprised. "I am so sorry, I had no idea it was so late. I'm sorry to have kept you."

Draco wobbled to his feet, pulling Harry up with him.

"We ought to go! Work early in the morning," he explained, eyelids heavy. "Thank you for having us, Fleur."

"Yeah, thanks," Harry drawled, pink in the face.

The couple lurched forward as Draco leaned in to kiss Fleur and she kissed them both, saying, "It was a pleasure having you."

I ran a hand through my hair, determined to do nothing but smile at her and then leave. I was too drunk to say anything dignified.

"It was a pleasure having you as well, Hermione," she murmured, smiling at me. "Will you be alright going home?"

"I'll be fine," I lied, regretting it the second the words came out of my mouth. 

 I swayed and she steadied me, her right hand slipping behind my back and pulling me toward her so that I almost touched her to steady me on my jelly-like feet. My stomach fluttered and I heard her breathing shift as I felt her hand slide across my hip. I huffed, pulling away from her and grumbling. She made me feel so self-conscious and awkward. 

"Ronald, will you please make sure she gets home safely?" she requested, and I heard a faint purr in her voice.

_Magic. There it is again._

I glared out of the doorway, taking a few unsteady steps out as soon as I heard Ron swallow hard. I felt a twinge of dislike. She was turning on her charm again, just to get what she wanted. It was more than obvious that Ron was more drunk than I was. Fool I was to have thought that she'd changed. 

"I-uh, yeah. Yeah, of course. Anything for you, Fleur," he babbled like an idiot.

"Merci," she smiled. "Good night."

I listened in disgust as she kissed Ron wetly on the cheek. 

"Good night," I muttered, not bothering to look back.

_Magic. That's all it is._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleur visits home.

**CHAPTER 3**

FLEUR

 

A month had passed and I had settled into my apartment and job with relative ease. The end of the month was approaching, and with the end of every month came sleepless nights and edginess - only a small part of my illness. I lost my appetite and filled up on coffee and cigarettes to keep myself on my feet and awake. I had to choke back my potion up to five times a day instead of twice, depending on how I felt. I was exhausted and irritable. I felt weak and useless, like a corpse animated by strings and wind. 

 

Being an Auror was, surprisingly, not at all what I had expected. Of course, with The Boy Who Lived himself on its forces, the Ministry's large force of Aurors was not one to be taken lightly by anyone. Criminals were many, but petty and unchallenging. In short, work was boring. There were days when I found myself aching for the misty vineyards that my family owned, specifically when I was trapped at a desk, filling out paperwork.

 

Our shift ended at five in the afternoon every day and, every day, five o'clock could never come quickly enough. Somehow, it had become a custom for Harry, Ron, and I to finish our shift on Friday and then meet Hermione and Draco at The Wizened Gamut, a bookstore and cafe that, despite its silly and trite name, was a pleasant niche. Today, Harry and Ron had decided to stay behind to finish filing away arrest warrants and other such paperwork that I was always so loath to do. I was not surprised to find Hermione already sitting outside at our usual table when I arrived, nose deep in yet another gigantic and dusty book that was probably hers (only Hermione would bring her own books to a book store), her usual espresso steaming in a cup beside her. She always sat it at an uncomfortably precarious distance and angle from her book, constantly in danger of being knocked over. I smiled a little, wondering if she knew of the risk she took or if she really was so immersed in her reading that she had not noticed.

 

I sat in the chair opposite her, setting my cup of hazelnut coffee (no cream, no sugar) on the table, and cleared my throat. She looked up, pausing briefly and looking slightly irritated. 

 

"Good evening," I began conversationally, reaching for my cigarettes.

 

She grunted in reply, sharp eyes flicking back down to the text she was reading.

 

I sniffed, quirking an eyebrow and placing a cigarette between my lips before asking, "Bad day?"

 

"You know," Hermione mumbled, "smoking is really quite bad for you."

 

"And mumbling is rude," I shot back defensively, making a point to pinch the cigarette with flourish to ignite it.

 

I took a drag, watching her eyebrows furrow and her eyes squint and she plowed on with her reading, determinedly ignoring me. Had I not been exhausted, I would have said something else. Her unpleasantness was fraying my already frayed nerves, but my heart gave a desperate lurch every time her deep, dark eyes narrowed and widened after absorbing a page of information. I exhaled, studying the cover of Hermione's book to busy myself as she was clearly otherwise occupied.

 

"The Encyclopedia of Psychoactive Plants: Ethnopharmacology and Its Applications?" I questioned. "You are in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, why do you need to know about psychoactive plants?"

 

"Why not?" she drawled. "Sometimes it's nice to just know about things, Delacour."

 

My heart fell at her formality and coldness just as quickly as my temper flared. I took an angry puff of my cigarette, breathing smoke in her direction. Her eyes flashed and she met my gaze, daring me to look away. I refused.

 

"And why would that be, _Granger?_ " I leered. "So that you can hold your extensive knowledge about psychoactive plants over everyone else's heads?"

 

Her eyebrows furrowed and she set her book down, pursing her lips as she reached for her coffee. She lifted the cup to her lips before pausing and saying, "No, actually. So that I can actually rely on my brain instead of... _other_ things."

 

She placidly sipped from her cup and a shock of anger shot down my spine and into my hands. I leaned forward on the table and rested on my elbows, closing the distance between us a little. I studied her face, which bore a strange but unfortunately familiar mixture of forced calm and frustration. Hermione had been oddly unfriendly toward me the more time we spent together. Initially, she had been shy and almost reserved; now, she was bold and irritable- the same brash, clinical, judgmental girl I had first met who seemed unable to do anything but scowl at me over the edges of her books. 

 

"Whore," she glowered, not making any strong attempt to make sure I would not hear.

 

"I am not a whore, Granger," I said icily, glaring at her because it felt good. "Even if I were, I doubt you could afford me."

 

Her spine went rigid and she lowered her book, looking stung and offended and livid. My cigarette still smouldered between two fingers in my right hand, and I watched her over the glowing tip. 

 

"Oh, you think you're so-" she began, a flush rising immediately to her cheeks.

 

"Good evening, Fleur," Draco interrupted pointedly, approaching us with a confused but amused look on his face. "Good evening, Hermione. What's crawled up your bum and died?"

 

She bristled and pivoted in her chair to shoot him a dirty look.

 

"Your hair looks wonderful, Draco. Did you comb with a Bludger this morning?" she snapped.

 

"Ah, seems you've got a bum dragon today," Draco mused aloud. "Hungarian Horntail, perhaps?"

 

"Oh, ha," she said dryly. "You're so clever."

 

"And you're just as pleasant as I am clever," he snorted, seating himself beside me. "I'll let Ron and Harry sit by you tonight, you insufferable grump. Until you learn to play nice, I won't play with you."

 

"Fine," she muttered, picking her book back up and burrowing into it once again.

 

I caught a glimpse of her face before the giant tome covered it and saw that her cheeks were still pink, and a part of me ached to reach out and cool them with my fingertips but I shook myself of the urge, still irked by her rudeness. I seethed quietly, indignant and feeling slighted. She seethed back, displeasure and anger undulating off of her body in waves. Snatching her book back up, Hermione immediately hid behind it, alternating between reading and staring at me with half-slitted eyes. 

 

"I'm sorry, Fleur," Draco said loudly. "Hermione's secretly part troll. She can't always control it."

 

"She seems to be able to control her hair, lately," I laughed bitterly. "Surely, controlling her manners cannot be more difficult?"

 

Her hands tensed where they were gripping her book, but she said nothing. I wanted to tug the book from her hands and demand an explanation as to why she had suddenly become so cold when, before, she was almost timid. The Veela in me uncurled in my stomach and purred, urging me to fling the book away from Hermione, tangle my fingers in her hair, and wrench her into a kneeling posture at my feet. I sought understanding, it sought to punish impudence. I lowered my gaze to the table. 

 

I chided myself, insisting that I forget about her. After all, she had made it abundantly clear that she wanted very little, if anything, to do with me. My heart was both willing and loath to forget her; I would have been glad to forget her, were I able. But I could not. She was the reason why I came back to London, no matter what I told myself about the Ministry job. I hated the Ministry job and found it boring and almost debasing, insulting in its ease and tragic in its attempt to be a position of glory to laud heroes of the war. And, I reminded myself, I had planned to return to London before the Minister owled me. Hermione was the reason I came back to London. It was not the Minister's owl, it was not my grandmother's insistence and daily lectures, and it was hardly even for my own health. I came back to see her because, for years, something in me had yearned, longed, and ached for her and, even at her worst, she was beautiful to me. She was the only person who had never been overwhelmed by my Veela charm, barring my own family. She was the only person whose eyes remained sharp and clear, whose higher thinking and irritation superseded her basic lust and fought the desire to simper. She knew me, and did not worship me. It was a welcome reprieve from all of those who did not know me and adored me. It was as frustrating as it was intoxicating. She made my breath catch every time she glared at me. I stubbed out my cigarette and lit a new one, realizing that I was doomed to a short and sad life of romantic masochism.

 

"Oh, here come Harry and Ron," Draco said suddenly, hopping lightly to his feet as soon as Harry was within sight and kissing him on the cheek. "You're late, Potty. How rude of you, especially when Fleur said she had something important to tell us, right, Fleur?"

 

I blinked and shook my head, forcing myself out of my introspection.

 

"Yes," I began, surprised that Hermione set her book down and looked at me with yet another bored and irritated expression on her pretty face. "I am leaving tomorrow for France."

 

Ron squawked, "What? But I thought-"

 

"You can't go!" Draco whined, pouting. "You only just got here!"

 

"I thought you liked it here," Harry frowned, looking disappointed.

 

Hermione's expression said, "Good riddance" though she remained silent.

 

"It is only for a few days, do not worry," I smiled, watching her face fall slightly. "Just to visit my family. I will be back in four days or so. I already have vacation leave."

 

"Alright," Draco sighed, relieved. "I thought we were losing you for good!"

 

"No, no," I said lightly. "Only for a few days at the end of each month."

 

"But why every month, Fleur?" Harry pressed, eyeing me with something akin to suspicion and furrowing his thick eyebrows.

 

"My family insisted upon it," I lied, crossing my legs and taking a deep drag and exhaling a few seconds later. "Especially Gabrielle. Their condition was that I could either go back home for a week to placate them and, most especially, my little sister or they could send her here for a week every month to terrorize all of London. I think we all know how that would end, no?"

 

" _I am ill_ ," I wanted to say. " _I have to return home to be healed or else I will die. I am dangerous. I have to hide or else I might hurt someone_."

 

Ron grinned, laughing heartily, "Hasn't changed much, has she?"

 

"Still a bit of a terror, I am afraid," I replied. "You know how little sisters are. I heard stories that Ginny was quite the same with you when she was younger, no? Very clingy?"

 

"Oh, yeah," he whistled, leaning back in his seat and reclining his surprisingly large frame. "She was a clingy little git, back then. Always wanted to be doing what I was doing. She'd burst into hysterics every time mum would try to separate us; she'd have a right fit whenever mum told her to go play with the neighbours' daughters instead of playing quidditch with me and Fred and George."

 

He smiled fondly at the memory and I felt my throat tighten as the pain of losing Fred twinged anew like an unhealed wound. 

 

"I was a little sad when she outgrew it, to be honest," he admitted sheepishly. "It was weird, y'know, turning around and finding my own arse without Gin attached to my hip, squealing, 'Ronnie, Ronnie! Play with me!' It drove me completely mad sometimes, but I loved it, too."

 

"Little sisters," I sighed. "Sometimes I wish Gabrielle weren't so hard-headed and insistent, but she would hardly be my Gabri if she were not maddening."

 

"How old is she now?" Draco asked. "I haven't really seen her since the Triwizard Tournament."

 

I chuckled, "A decade ago. She was seven then, and is seventeen now. Not much has changed in her attitude."

 

"Oh, wow," Harry gasped. "Ten years? Really? It seems so long ago, now."

 

Our conversation was skewed then toward family, mostly about Ginny. The continued conversation about Ginny turned into a conversation about Ginny and Harry, which turned into teasing. Ron shook his head as Harry, mortified, flattened his bangs nervously over and over as Draco berated him.

 

"Tell me, Potty, do you prefer redheads or blondes?" he teased, wiggling his eyebrows and batting his eyelashes.

 

Harry mumbled an incoherent response and Draco laughed, "Or do you prefer brunettes? Or Asians? I remember you had a go at Cho Chang for quite some time. Should I dye my hair, darling? Maybe transfigure a pair of tits onto myself?"

 

"No," Harry muttered, blushing fit to put a tomato to shame. "I like you blonde, Draco. And I like you without tits, thanks. If I wanted a girl, I'd just get with one."

 

"Ooh, a playboy, are we?" Draco sneered playfully, pinching Harry's cheeks.

 

Harry rolled his eyes and Ron guffawed, truly amused.

 

I sipped my coffee and smiled.

 

Hermione remained deadly silent.

 

\---

 

It was bitter that I had to go home only to be confined, but it was the kind of bitterness that was tempered by necessity and resignation. I had no choice. I had the option of staying in London, but it was a nonsensical option. Had I stayed, I would have chanced becoming so weak and so ill that I would have collapsed or, worse, yielded beneath the press of the Veela bubbling beneath my skin. 

 

The Veela gift of beauty is not a gift at all, but a disease and a curse; it was a double-edged sword of the worst kind. My life was about duality as a result of my Veela ancestry; I was at once calm and rabid, blessed and wretched, beautiful and monstrous, intelligent and primal, Human and Veela. Literally, there were two parts of me: the part I could control, and the part I could not. As the moon became fuller, I became weaker, I being the human Fleur. All the while, the Veela Fleur would become stronger, struggling beneath my skin and my consciousness to escape. She was always screaming and trying to claw her way to the surface like all unwilling prisoners, of course, but struggling to suppress her exhausted me. It was no coincidence that the full moon made her stronger and made me weaker. My skin was but a veil to her, then.

 

Maybe it was this that was the cause of my close friendship with Remus while he was still living. Few know the true nature of Veela, but he had noticed that, very much like himself, I had a habit of disappearing for a few days every month and coming back looking like the waking dead. I had explained it to him and, with a wry smile, he nodded and listened and understood. 

 

"Werefleur," he chuckled dryly, shaking his hair out of his scarred face. 

 

"Never let Ginny hear you calling me that," I sighed. "It would become 'werephleghm' if she knew."

 

I explained to Remus that ever since I was eighteen years old, I had to be locked in the cellar for three days and nights out of every month. I was born with the illness, but it had not escalated to such a state that I became an actual physical threat to people until I returned to France after the Triwizard Tournament. When I was younger, I would only become weak. I would be confined to my bed, not to a cellar. Remus understood with startling clarity, of course, and told me of how his friends used to smuggle him to the Shrieking Shack during every full moon. He was an intelligent, soft-spoken man and the jagged lines of his scars were the only thing that suggested otherwise. He understood better than anyone what it was like to have a monster swimming just beneath the surface.

 

I was horrified when Bill was attacked by Fenrir, terrified that he would suffer the same fate as Lupin, as me. It was that, coupled with the fear of dying alone during the war, that pushed me to marry him. I knew he was a good man, and his scars were a testament to that. Luckily, he never transformed into a full werewolf, although he gained many strange characteristics. He took to liking his meat extremely rare, his gait changed into the restless pace of an animal, he became rougher. He was still Bill, but his animal clashed with mine again and again, and tempers flared with each moon that waxed and waned. He became restless and reckless, and I became weak and irritable. I always lied to him and said I was going home to visit my sick grandmother every month when I left. When he asked to come with me, I always refused him, saying that it would be an injury to her pride to be seen so fragile.

 

The truth was that it was _I_ who was ill, and it was _my_ pride that would be injured to be seen so fragile- even by my own husband. He was hurt by this, of course, and it was only another wedge driven between us. He accused me of not trusting him and distanced himself further, which led me to accuse him of wanting to run away from his commitment to me because of his selfishness and inability to give me space. His accusations of distrust turned to accusations of infidelity, and cries that demanded why he wasn't enough for me and why I had to run off to someone else. He was not incorrect to think that he was not enough, but he was wrong to assume that I had been cheating; maybe I  had been, in my mind, but not by body.  Eventually, arguments got out of hand. There were many times when I found myself at his throat over nothing, and he found himself roaring at my back as I stalked away from him. With every fight, memories of the two of us became fainter and fainter until I ran out of them and began to recall older times. It was during those aged recollections that I began to remember Hermione, Hermione whose eyes were sharp and calculating and beautiful and the colour of rosewood, Hermione who had shown nothing but the utmost disdain for me as of late.

 

The sky was still tinged with a blush of sunrise by the time I had decided to apparate home, back to France. I had only bothered to pack a small amount of clothing and my potion- nothing else. I would need very little during this visit. Closing my eyes, I gagged down my first dose of potion of the morning, coughed, and shook my head, my face twisting involuntarily in disgust.

 

"I would rather kiss a basilisk," I muttered, picking up my bag and holding it close to my side.

 

I shut my eyes again, conjuring an image of my family's library, of the warm, golden glow that always seemed to fill the room, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined the walls and the ladders that led to the tops, and the large windows. I could almost smell the comforting mustiness of the old books mingled with the perfume with which Gabrielle over-generously doused herself, and I could almost hear my grandmother and parents chatting calmly in the kitchen as our Great Dane Philip yawned and loped around the house, nails clacking against the wood and tail swinging lazily. Allowing myself to smile, I braced myself and spun in place, feeling my way into space and reaching for the threads that connected me to my home.

 

I gasped, feeling a sudden and sharp tug on my arm and I was yanked into empty space and began the stomach-churning zip through distance. Long-distance apparation was exhausting and considerably more nauseating than normal apparition. It seemed to last forever, and I shut my eyes tightly and clutched onto my bag, anxiously anticipating the end of the sickening spinning feeling and the sound of whooshing air in my ears. Suddenly, with the sound of a distant crack of thunder, I was jolted and my knees trembled with the shock of falling as if I had suddenly leapt from a tall building and landed on my feet. I inhaled greedily, dropping my suitcase and leaning against the wall.

 

"On time," I heard a voice say, laughing pleasantly. "As always. Welcome home, mon amour."

 

" _Maman_ ," I breathed, surprised by how glad I was to see her. 

 

My mother smiled at me, beautiful and radiant as always, and stepped forward to kiss both of my cheeks and wrap me in a warm embrace. I sighed, wrapping my arms gladly around her waist and resting my chin on her shoulder, wondering when I had grown to be my mother's height. After a few moments, she pulled away, holding me at arms' length and scrutinizing and inspecting me in the way that only a mother could.

 

"You look tired," she clucked gently, frowning and running her thumb across the apple of my cheek. "And thin. Have you been eating?"

 

"Maman, you know how I am when it is so close to-"

 

"That is no excuse to not eat, Fleur," she scolded, pulling me toward the kitchen. "If anything, you should eat more. And I do know how you are, at these times and at all times. You are my daughter, after all. You need to take better care of yourself."

 

"Apolline, truly. She has been here barely a minute and you are already lecturing her," my papa chuckled, peeking at me over the edge of his newspaper. "Chere, good to see you home."

 

I smiled at him and kissed him, winding my arms around his shoulders and squeezing tight.

 

"Always so biased toward your daughters," mother sighed, shaking her head slightly.

 

"He has a weakness for the Veela charm," my grandmother chortled, shuffling into the kitchen and kissing my cheeks as well. "And your mother is right. You need to eat more. You're too thin!" 

 

"You would still think me too thin even if I were the girth of a troll," I groaned as she poked and prodded at my sides, squeezing my hips and pinching my arms. "You say it just to say it."

 

"Perhaps. Have you been taking your potion?" grandmother asked sternly, looking up at me.

 

"Yes, grandmother. I have. I promise."

 

"Good. Now if only we could get Gabrielle to be so cooperative," she grumbled, sitting at the table and reaching for a piece of bread and spreading brie on it. 

 

"Cooperation is not in Gabrielle's nature," father said, his eyes sparkling fondly. "She's very hard-headed."

 

"Hard-headed is an understatement," mother replied, setting a plate with a fresh crepe with berries in front of me. "And I thought _you_ were hard-headed, Fleur. Ha! You were a slavishly obedient child compared to your sister. She is impossible."

 

"It is good, then, that she is also healthier. If she were as sickly as Fleur is...with her hard head, you would have only one daughter instead of two," grandmother said gravely, arching an eyebrow.

 

"Maman!" mother hissed, alarmed. "Don't be so grim! You are so morbid sometimes."

 

"It is true," grandmother insisted, feigning innocence and taking a bite of her bread and cheese.

 

"Where _is_ the little terror, anyway?" I asked, poking at my crepe with a fork. 

 

"Still asleep, no doubt," father murmured, adjusting his glasses on his nose and wiggling his dark eyebrows. "You know how she is- she would gladly sleep all day, every day if only we would let her. Your sister could sleep through a typhoon. She sleeps more than the dog, and he is such an old dog now."

 

"Just because he is an old dog does not mean that-" grandmother began indignantly, puffing herself up and shooting my father a dirty look.

 

I bit back a laugh as he coughed awkwardly and blustered out an apology, correcting himself and insisting that he meant no ill against the aged, least of all her or faithful old Philip, who she loved so dearly. He quelled beneath her glare. I felt my mother staring holes into me as I continued to poke at the crepe.

 

"Fleur," she tutted warningly, crossing her arms. 

 

Sighing, I took a bite and she relaxed, smiling again.

 

"You can go see your sister upstairs once you finish breakfast," she said, sipping her coffee.

 

"Yes, maman," I sighed.

 

I groaned inwardly. Here I was, twenty-seven years old and working as an Auror for the English Ministry of Magic in London, and I was still subject to my mother's insistent "eat your breakfast or else" glares. 

 

\---

 

After breakfast, my mother gave me permission to go wake Gabrielle amid my grandmother insisting that we would start my series of treatments immediately after dinner and that she would pinch my ear off if I gave her a hard time. Walking quietly, I ascended the stairs and deposited my bag in my old room and immediately headed to Gabrielle's room, across the hall from mine. I pressed my ear to the door, listening intently to Philip's snuffling snores and Gabrielle's sleep-mumbling. Satisfied that they were both indeed still asleep, I turned the door handle and walked in.

 

Gabrielle, in all her petulant glory, was sprawled out across her entire bed with her blankets twisted around her as if she had been wrestling with them. Lying on his side over her legs was Philip, snoring loudly. I smiled, remembering him as a heavy-footed, floppy-eared puppy. He was as big as Gabrielle now, if not bigger. Gingerly, I moved Gabrielle's arm and settled into bed next to her, wrapping my arms around my little sister and hugging her, although she was clearly still very much unconscious. 

 

"Gabrielle," I whispered, nudging her playfully.

 

She snorted, grunting and promptly rolling over. I rolled my eyes and laughed quietly, kissing the back of her head.

 

"Wake up, lazy," I said louder, keeping my arms around her waist as I bounced around lightly.

 

Grunting louder still, she reached behind her and swatted absently at me. 

 

"I have until next Tuesday to turn it in, maman," she grumbled, burrowing into her pillow.

 

"Gabri, wake up or else I'm going to steal those jeans of yours that I like. They look better on me, anyway."

 

I heard a loud whining yawn and suddenly the bed shifted and Philip was scooting toward me, tail wagging widely as his giant tongue lolled out of his mouth. He stood and it shocked me that that bed did not break as he stumbled over to me and flopped across me and Gabrielle, jabbing his nose immediately under my chin and demanding to be petted. 

 

"Good morning, Monsieur," I cooed, flattening my palms against his huge ears. 

 

Gabrielle grumbled indignantly, shoving at his haunches as he wiggled and wagged his tail, whining.

 

"Oh, shut up, Philip," she muttered, finally blinking one eye open. "You are more horse than dog, I swear."

 

"That is no way to talk to such an old man," I scolded lightly, pinching her side. 

 

Her eyes snapped open and she whirled around in the bed, forcing Philip off (he trotted off with a huff, heading downstairs), and tackled me in a bone-crushing hug.

 

"Fleur!" she squealed. "You're home!"

 

"And you are finally awake," I teased, smoothing her hair and kissing her forehead. "Good morning."

 

Gabrielle yawned and I wrinkled my nose, covering her mouth.

 

"Dragon breath," I explained as she shot me an indignant look. 

 

She sighed, nestling into the crook of my shoulder and I tousled her hair playfully.

 

"When will you start your treatment?" she whispered, playing absently with my hair.

 

I stared at the lock of hair twirled between her fingers and reached for a lock of hers, beginning to braid our hair together. It was impossible to tell where her hair began and my hair ended- the colour was identical. I looked at her briefly, at her almond-shaped azure eyes, still half-lidded with sleep. Gabrielle had always been a beautiful child, but she was becoming a beautiful young woman. Grandmother often told me how strange it was that Gabrielle looked so much like she did as a child, with softer features but a more brazen attitude. She told me how I had gotten my mother's sharper jawline and sense of worth, but that my soft-spokenness was decidedly not inherited from my mother but from my father. 

 

"Tonight," I mumbled. "Grandmother wants to start my treatment as soon as possible. After dinner. I assume I will be sent to the cellar afterward."

 

Gabrielle sighed disappointedly, snuffling against my shoulder.

 

"I hate this," she said. "I hate that you are so sick. I was hoping that you and I could just...talk."

 

I gave our braid a gentle tug and squeezed her hand.

 

"I hate it too."

 

"It's still early," Gabrielle mumbled, tugging the blanket over our shoulders. "I want to go back to sleep. Stay with me?"

 

Sighing, I let my head sink into the pillow beside Gabrielle's. My bones felt rubbery, my blood felt thin, my muscles felt like fraying strings beneath my skin. Suddenly, my own bedroom and my own bed seemed so, so far away. Exhausted, I nodded, closing my eyes.

 

\---

 

I sighed as I felt my mother staring at me again.

 

"I'm not hungry," I said patiently, stirring my soup.

 

I was so tired. All I wanted was to close my eyes and sleep to stop the feeling of tottering and spinning locked inside my skull. I wanted a lullaby to drown out the buzzing in my head and to soften the sharpness of my vision. Everything felt so hard and sounded so loud. The soup was too hot, too wet, too flavourful. The clink of the spoon against the bowl was like a wail. All I wanted was to sleep.

 

"And that is why I made you soup," she replied. "Because I knew that you would not be hungry. Fleur, you have to eat something. Please."

 

I squared my shoulders, clenching my spoon tightly in my hand and trying not to let myself be annoyed by her insistence, but her voice was so loud, her words so commanding. 

 

"Your mother is right, chere," father agreed, taking a bite of bread. "You need to eat something. You know that you need your strength."

 

And my father, siding with her? Of course he sided with her, he always did. Everyone always sided against me, no matter what it was.

 

"Shouldn't you be trying to keep me weak, instead?" I asked dryly, arching an eyebrow at them.

 

Gabrielle snorted into her soup, trying to wrench her lips back into a straight line and out of the smile into which they had bowed. 

 

"Gabrielle!" my mother snapped. "It is not funny! Your sister has a very serious condition, and she is very ill and-"

 

"I know, mother," Gabrielle sighed exasperatedly. "I have it too, or have you forgotten? It sort of runs in the family."

 

"But yours is not as bad as hers. Nobody's is! Not even your grandmother's, and she nearly died from it! It has never been like this, not in our family history!" my mother said, voice tight. "That your sister is _dying_ is nothing that you should laugh about, Gabrielle!"

 

 _Gabrielle_. She was the only person who had ever understood me and my volatile moods, who had taken care of me when we were younger instead of going outside to play. Even when she was just a baby, she understood how sick I was but how loath I was to take my medicine or ask for help. Sometimes, when we were still children, I cradled her in my arms and looked at her sweet, chubby face but suddenly succumbed to a fit. My fits were silent- a sudden palpitation of the heart, a series of stabbing pains in the chest and back, a constriction of the lungs- I would have cried out if I had had air with which to scream. One time, it was especially bad and the tightening in my throat was such that I thought my airway would collapse. Even as a baby, Gabrielle understood what was happening to me. She cried because I could not, screamed because I could not, she yelled and shrieked until my mother came running up the stairs to see me on the floor, writhing with my mouth open and bleeding from the nose with baby Gabrielle crying on the floor beside me. I owed her my life, many times over. I still hated myself for not being able to save her during the second task of the Triwizard Tournament when she, even in infancy, saved mine and has saved it again and again ever since, even if it was just by tackling me to my back and hexing me to lock my jaw open so she could pour my potion down my throat when I stubbornly refused to take it. 

 

"Stop!" I snapped, slamming my palm into the table. "Just stop! Stop yelling, all of you."

 

"Fleur," my grandmother said warningly.

 

"You two have no excuse to be shouting. It is uncivilized and rude and boorish. I am embarrassed to be seated here with you." I grated, glaring at my mother and sister.

 

"Fleur, your temper," my grandmother said urgently.

 

"And stop telling me what to do!" I cried. "I can take care of myself. I'm fine. And leave Gabrielle _alone._ She knows by now that it is not funny. She spent her childhood wiping sweat off of my face instead of playing with dolls; I am _certain_ that she knows how serious it is. And I am not dying, mother!"

 

"Fleur..." my papa whispered.

 

"I'm not!" I shouted stubbornly, banging my hand on the table. "I'm not! I am not _ready_ to!"

 

Suddenly, my chest constricted and I stilled, feeling my eyes widen and feeling my hand fly to my chest to clutch at my heart. It felt like it had grown legs and was trying to buck its way out of my ribcage. The fear that I had always felt but tried to ignore sank in like a knife into my side, and I balled my hands onto white-knuckled fists on the table. Suddenly, I was terrified. 

 

I was not ready to die. 

 

Even giving voice to the direness of my condition felt like bile coming out of my mouth. 

 

Gabrielle silenced, seeming taken aback by my outburst. My mother exhaled heavily through her nostrils, jaw clenched even as she took a large sip of wine. It was not the first time that my temper had superseded my reason- it happened quite often when I was at my worst, really, when I was tired and nauseous and my emotions ran high. 

 

"Fleur, should we start your treatment right now?" my grandmother asked gently, moving to get out of her chair.

 

"No," I said after a long pause. "After dinner, like you said."

 

I sat up straight, trying not to wince as I felt pressure sitting on my lungs. Slowly, I began to eat my soup. 

 

"I'm sorry, maman," Gabrielle mumbled, staring into her bowl.

 

"I am sorry too, Gabri," my mother conceded, looking at my sister  and smiling weakly. "I should not have yelled at you. But I just worry sometimes what I would do if anything were to happen to either of you. We were already so close to losing Fleur during the war."

 

" _You are still so close to losing me now_ ," I thought grimly.

 

Dinner passed rather pleasantly after my outburst, and I even managed to force down some soup (with my mother breathing down my neck the entire time, of course). After dinner, I sat quietly in the kitchen as Gabrielle cleared the table, watching my parents pacing restlessly. My father's walk, in particular, made me feel nauseous. The way his legs moved, the way his hands created wrinkles deep in his pockets that looked like blades, the way everything was becoming too loud, too focused, too sharp, too hot -- it was making me nauseous. I wanted to scream. 

 

"Papa," I groaned. "Please stop. It's not as if this is the first time. You're making me nervous." 

 

"Sorry," he grumbled, stroking his beard. "I just-"

 

"Are you ready?" my grandmother asked sharply, gripping my arm.

 

"No," I replied honestly. "No. I never am."

 

\---

 

I closed my eyes and sighed, trudging down the stone steps to our cellar as my parents advanced, wands out and at the ready, prepared to stun or hex me if I should suddenly try to escape. The first time I had been made to do this, I made an attempt to run and, within seconds, found myself face down on the floor after a bright flash of light erupted from my father's wand. Even Gabrielle was there, wand pointed at me reluctantly. My mother's wand was aimed for my head, my father's at my legs, and Gabrielle's was, most bitterly of all, pointed at my heart. Grandmother, on the other hand, was carrying flasks and vials of potion that I was meant to drink. Before heading downstairs, she had already forced me to take a calming potion as well as a muscle relaxant, both of which suppressed my anxiety and panic and, therefore, delayed the change at least until I was contained. I felt the moon rising in the sky, and as it rose, so did the restlessness of the Veela. With the potions, however, I suddenly felt too tired to be anything but compliant. Pressing my hand briefly against the wall, I almost sighed with relief when I felt the cool stone against my body. The cellar was kept dim and cool, which was soothing to me and helpful to my family. Heat and light made me agitated, while the opposite had an almost sedative effect on me. Everything was much easier when I was calm.

 

At the back of cellar was a square of black marble that was two meters across each way. I knew that there were shackles affixed to the middle of it, and that it was magical stone instead of just black marble- it was the same stone used to build the walls of Azkaban prison and many other wizarding prisons, but polished. Only very powerful magic could break it apart. My breath hitched unpleasantly in my throat as I saw the ankle restraints and I paused, my stride broken. I felt the tension in the air swell and saw my mother's wand hand shake.  Swallowing hard, I willed my legs back into motion, taking smaller and more hesitant steps toward the square. Nobody said anything; it was a familiar ritual by now. My grandmother handed me a flask of potion which I took and drank, grimacing and coughing liberally and without exaggeration. My irritation flared for a fleeting moment as I bent uncomfortably to kneel in the middle of the square, allowing my grandmother to lock my wrists into the cuffs on either side of me and then reach behind me to lock my ankles into the cuffs built into the floor. The chains were short enough so that my range of motion was limited to lying down on my stomach or side, kneeling, or being on all fours. I knelt solemnly, saying nothing and averting my eyes. 

 

"Comfortable?" she asked quietly, stroking my hair out of my eyes.

 

"Hardly," I murmured, staring at the heavy black shackles on my wrists. 

 

"It cannot be helped, chere," she whispered. "You have become too strong. It has to be this way."

 

"I know," I answered, frowning. 

 

"We have not put a silencing charm on the cellar," my grandmother said. "We need to be able to hear you, in case you...have a very bad fit or, worse, escape."

 

My family stood over me, quiet and uncomfortable even though this had happened so many times before. The uncomfortableness never eased. My mother coughed, shuffling her feet and my father shoved his hands into his pockets, looking at me with remorseful eyes. Grandmother mumbled absently to herself, arranging the flasks and flagons. It was humiliating to be forced to my knees in chains and I knew that Gabrielle knew how I felt and that she was going to try to say something funny to make me feel better. 

 

"So there was-" she began.

 

"Go," I whispered, ducking my head. "Please. I don't want you to see me like this."

 

Gabrielle shut her mouth and nodded, lagging behind as the rest of the family made their way up the stairs.

 

"I'll be back to check on you later," she said softly before turning and trudging up the stone stairs.

 

I closed my eyes as the door swung shut.

 

\---

 

The worst part of every storm is the silence that comes beforehand, having to sit and wait and wait and wait in stagnant silence knowing that winds were coming to sweep your legs from beneath you and smash you against the ground. Waiting was agonizing and I was not known for my patience; I was anxious and scared, knowing that it was only a matter of time before the madness would set in. Minutes passed, then hours. The calming and muscle relaxing potions made me feel like I was made of watery jelly, and I drifted in and out of a daze on my knees, my only light a small and flickering torch. 

 

I realized with startling bitterness that my own family had locked me in our cellar and chained me to my knees. I had graduated at the top of my class at a prestigious academy of magic, I was a Triwizard Champion, I fought in the Second Great Wizarding War and had offered refuge to Harry Potter himself in my home, I had survived and become an Auror. I was successful and wealthy and beautiful, and I was chained to my knees in the middle of my own cellar like I was a slave being punished, like an animal so mange-ridden and pathetic that it was unworthy of anything better and had to be hidden like a horrible secret. 

 

"I want to go back to Diagon Alley," I said out loud, watching the flames in the torch throw shadows against the walls. "I want to go back! Let me go!"

 

The shout echoed off of the walls to bounce back at me, cutting into my ears and making me jerk in surprise at the loudness of it after hours of silence. My knees were tingling and my legs had become numb. I felt a growl thrumming in my throat and knew that the storm was swirling in.

 

"Let me go!" I shouted, trying to leap to my feet but being jerked back down by the chains binding me to the floor.

 

I snarled, kneeling again and yanking sharply up on my wrist constraints, ignoring the uncomfortable creak of my wrist bones protesting to the sudden violence. A strange strength surged through me and I pulled with fervor, almost rabid and desperate to escape. Who were they to chain me? I wanted to run. I wanted to move. I wanted to run through the streets, through the woods, anywhere. I felt the metal cutting into my wrists but I gritted my teeth against the pain and kept yanking at the chains, the shackles chaffing my already open wounds.

 

"Gabrielle!" I yelled, my voice sounding rough and alien to my ears. "Gabrielle! I need you! Let me out!"

 

I struggled against my chains for what felt like and could have been hours, fueled by rage that my own sister did not respond to my calls. Sweat dripped from my forehead and down my back, and my hair matted against my face as I slid to a seated position, my legs to the side, finally tired. Grunting, I stretched out onto my stomach and rolled onto my back, glaring up at the ceiling.

 

"What gives you the right to treat me like an animal?" I bellowed. "You have no right!"

 

Gabrielle did not answer, had not answered. Even _she_ had abandoned me, and the realization of that hit me like a swift punch to the gut and I began to thrash and scream with a renewed rage. I flailed my arms and legs, feeling anger and pain and strength and weakness and everything else I had ever felt boiling in my stomach like an uncontrollable nausea. There was nothing I could do, wanted to do but scream and flail. My throat felt shredded and my teeth felt too big and too sharp in my mouth, and my arms itched with the promises of scales and feathers lurking just beneath another tantrum. 

 

I could feel the power swimming in my veins, surging like an avalanche. I was so strong, but I was chained on my knees on this rock that I could not escape, with shackles that I could not break. I was so strong, but I was so useless. I wanted to run. I wanted to break something, to kill something, to wring something's neck in my hands and feel its windpipe crunch beneath my fingers. All I could smell was blood, sweat, and stone and I was so limited in my movements that it was maddening. All I could see was dull, muddy shadows and the occasional flash of the most beautiful, exquisite shade of brown like rosewood that only made me strain harder against my chains for freedom- it made me _ache_ to be free. I wanted to kick something, to kick a door down and break it and feel the satisfaction of breaking something. I wanted to destroy something, anything.

 

"Let me out!" I shrieked, tasting blood in my mouth and wanting more that wasn't mine. "Let me out, or I'll kill you all!"

 

Somewhere beneath the rage, I knew that my family was upstairs, listening but trying not to. 

 

\---

 

I grunted as I heard stirring beside me and my eyes snapped open and I bared my teeth, snapping. A woman gasped and recoiled, stepping well out of my reach as I shook my throbbing head and looked up. 

 

"Gabrielle?" I whispered hoarsely.

 

Gabrielle was strangely quiet as she wiped my forehead with the damp cloth in her hand, and grew quieter still as she tipped a cup of potion to my lips. I sputtered, feeling it dribble down my chin and front and land with soft trickling noises on the floor. I looked at her past the oily strands of my hair. She ducked her head, avoiding my eyes as she rubbed a potion-soaked cloth over the chaffing wounds on my wrists, a few of which had begun to scab over but most of which were still open and deep. I inhaled sharply, feeling something sharp uncoiling in my stomach and unable to stop myself from snarling at my sister. She flinched and I hated myself, wrestling with the desire to scream.

 

"Gabrielle, please," I begged. "Let me go."

 

"It's six in the morning. I must really love you, no? I would never wake up this early for anyone else," she murmured, sounding more depressed than I had ever hoped to hear her sound. "You're always much calmer during morning, but it's gotten so much worse."

 

"What-"

 

"The screaming usually doesn't start until the second night," she continued, cleaning spittle and blood and potion off of my face. "You started just four hours after you came down here. It was terrible. You don't normally even show traces of change until the second night, but I can feel your scales already."

 

She stroked my arm, and I saw ridges of black scales breaking through my skin.

 

"You were screaming so loudly," she mumbled, reaching behind me and tying my hair away from my face. "It was like you were insane, screaming that you wanted to run and that you would kill us."

 

An unpleasant jolt of shock struck me and I whispered, "Gabrielle, I would never-"

 

She smiled sadly, continuing to wipe my face and neck with the damp cloth.

 

"You pull so hard against these shackles that you cut your forearms open. Every time we remove them, it's like half of your wrist peels off with them," she mumbled, cringing as she dabbed at my wounds with potion.

 

I hissed, jerking away from her and curling into myself protectively. Sighing, Gabrielle reached out and took my leg, wiping at my bloody ankles. The potion fizzed and crackled and, with a roar of pain, I kicked aimlessly and tried to scramble away. My efforts were fruitless, and I was only jerked back into place by the shackles which only cut into my skin still deeper.

 

"You know that these shackles are enchanted, Fleur. You can't break free of them and your wounds will not heal properly until they come off. You're only making it worse."

 

"Take them off, then!" I snapped, glaring at her. "Take these fucking things off of me, NOW!"

 

"You know I can't do that. Even if I wanted to."

 

I lunged at her, ignoring the scrape of metal against tissue, growling and snarling like an angry dog. She was close, so close. I could smell her, and she was beginning to reek of nervousness and a tinge of fear. She was so small and so pale, so white in the darkness, so fragile-looking in the middle of so much stone and blood and sweat. I wanted to _crush her_. I struggled and struggled, and she was barely just out of reach of my right hand, paralyzed with fear and unable to move. 

 

"F-f-fleur," she stammered. "S-stop it!"

 

Her voice was so small, so weak, so pitiful- I wanted to _crush_ her.

 

"You are _mine!"_ I shrieked, eyes widening victoriously as my forearm somehow slid forward through my shackles just a few inches.

 

Frantically, I clawed at her until I had her wrist in my grasp- it was so small and it would be so easy to break-

 

"Maman!" Gabrielle cried, literally weeping with fear. "Papa! Somebody, help!"

 

I heard the door fly open, followed by the sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs.

 

"Gabrielle!" my mother shouted, running forward and flinging out her arm and pulling Gabrielle out of my reach. "Go! Get upstairs!"

 

"But-"

 

"I said go upstairs!" she barked.

 

The snarls were out of control now, and I watched as if outside of my own body, horrified as I watched my body twist, writhe and scream. My voice broke and cracked as I screeched and thrashed, howling incoherently in no language at all. I heard my mother's tremulous breath and looked up into her tear-filled eyes. From where I was, shackled to my knees, I could see them threatening to teeter over the edge of her eyelids and slip down the slope of her beautiful face. 

 

"I am sorry, Fleur," she whispered, her strength giving way to gravity as she began to cry. "But this is for our safety, and yours."

 

I could not recognize my own voice as I bellowed in rage, watching as she pulled out her wand. Her lip trembled as she looked at me, bending to her knees and caressing my face.

 

"I love you," she whispered. "I love you. I am sorry."

 

I screamed again, bucking in my constraints and trying to lunge toward her, ignoring the scrape of metal against what might have been my bone.

 

" _Stupefy_."

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione thinks.

**CHAPTER 4  
** HERMIONE

I had ducked back behind my book by the time Fleur had excused herself to go home, saying that she needed to finish packing her things. I scowled over the aged pages at her retreating form, watching a wayward breeze toying with her hair as if allowing it to slip through invisible fingers. Vaguely, I heard myself grunt a goodbye, probably well after she was out of earshot. I was glad she was gone, really. Her very presence made me irritated. I hated watching Ron swoon over her, and it was not at all jealousy because I thanked Godric Gryffindor himself every day that I had the courage to end things with that redheaded, plaid-obsessed buffoon. It was more disgust because, clearly, she did not seek his attention or approval but couldn't seem to stop herself reducing him to a pile of blushing saliva nonetheless. It was as if she enjoyed watching his dignity crumble, liquefy, and pool at her feet. I hated watching her laugh and trade acerbic and witty banter with Draco, hated watching her talk amicably with Harry. Everything was so easy for her; she slid in and out of social situations like a well-oiled and beautiful venomous snake while I bungled and tripped and fell on my face.

_It's not fair._

She was perfect, and I loathed her for it. She was tall, blonde, beautiful, and successful. For every perfect hair that she had in place, she had an unbreakable fibre of dignity; for every stunning, white, even smile she could flash, she had an equally stunning and intelligent comment. Her wit was as devastating as her face, and she was as eloquent as she was graceful. She had legs and books for days alike. Pretty, well-mannered, and smart- and it was all with the kind of natural, seamless, effortless ease that made my stomach churn with jealousy. She was mysterious and clever, and I would have loved to sit and talk about books with her if I had it in me to tolerate her company alone for more than five minutes without wanting to snatch her bald. She was not the kind of woman who, like me, had to have her teeth transfigured so that they would actually look normal, and it was even less likely that she had to sleep with Sleekeazy in her hair every night just to tame it. I was a Gryffindor and proud of it, but I would be damned if I had a matching Gryffindor lion's mane. She looked like she never tried, and it irked me to high heavens because of all of the effort I put into just making myself presentable enough to leave the house. Fleur probably woke up beautiful every day, ready to charm the pants off of any man to get what she wanted, whereas I woke up looking like a troll and the best I've ever done for myself was bungling Ron and Viktor who, as sweet as he was, had probably taken a few too many bludgers to the head. She was too good to be true. It made me want to scream. Or vomit. Both, at the same time, if I could manage it.

My dislike for her had quelled, at least I thought so. I had, at least, come to a point of being able to think fairly clearly when she was around. Over the months of tolerating her overwhelming presence, I had done some research and found that potions could be taken to help fight off the Veela charm. An unfortunate side-effect of this potion, however, was growing a rather impressive beard; obviously, this was no problem for men, but it would have been shocking for me to wake up with a beard. Instead, I found my own antidote for her venom: _think_. It was strange that, although she addled my brain, I had to _think_ to unflummox myself. So I did. I thought about books and bookshelves and how manipulative and haughty she was, about how sleekly snide and disdainful she was, about how she probably thought smoking made her look cool, about how childish that idea was. It didn't matter what I was thinking, so long as I _was_. Most of my thoughts were of malice toward Fleur.

_She deserves it for flinging her magic around like that._

"Who am I going to talk about fashion with now?" Draco sighed dramatically, sinking into his chair and snatching up the leftover pack of cigarettes that he had managed to bum from Fleur. "Ron dresses like a lumberjack, Harry has no idea how to wear clothes that actually fit him properly, and Hermione- you're just hopeless. You and your awful jumpers."

He lit one and took an exaggerated drag, pouting. I fought the urge to hide my head in my book and slam it shut around my ears, hopefully pounding my restless brain into silence.

"That really is a disgusting habit," I snapped. "And you look like an idiot with that _thing_ poking out of your mouth like an overgrown snaggletooth."

"Oh, so says you," he retorted. "You're the one with the awful teeth, not me. Besides, it can't look that stupid. There's no reason why you would stare at Fleur so avidly when she smokes if you thought she looked stupid."

I bristled, closing my book with a surprising snap and glaring at him.

"My teeth are _fine_!"

I saw a smirk begin to tug at the corner of Draco's mouth.

"Oh, put those out, you wretched bastard. They smell horrible," I sighed, snatching the offending item from between Draco's lips and stubbing it out with ferocity as he objected.

The smell of the cigarettes wasn't bad, to be honest. It was light and almost airy, distinctly smoky with a strange hint of jasmine but not overwhelming at all. It was almost...comforting. Still, they annoyed me. And they really _were_ bad for you.

"Impossible," Draco gasped. "You impossible, impossible woman. Why must you act like such a child?"

"Me?" I said shrilly. "You're the one over there who's pouting!"

"I meant in that you have no idea how to show affection," he corrected, lighting another cigarette. "You're like the little boy who pulls a girl's pigtails to show her that he likes her."

I took the pack from him, shoving it into my purse and giving him a dirty look.

"I know plenty well how to show affection, thank you," I said curtly, taking a sip of my latte.

"Oh, do you? Is that why you don't trust that I'm enough of a big boy to decide whether or not I want a cigarette? And why you can't just admit that you like Fleur and, instead, have to grunt at her like you don't speak a lick of English and scowl at her as if your face is stuck that way?"

"Well, fine! If you want lung cancer, then please, by all means smoke yourself unconscious! And I would be glad to show Fleur affection- if I had any for her!"

Draco shot to his feet, waving his arms exasperatedly.

"There!" he cried. "There! You're doing it again! Just stop denying it, Hermione. Anyone with eyes can see that you-"

"Draco, whatever's in your hand must not be a cigarette because you're obviously hallucinating and suffering delusions of my having some sort of mad, raging lesbian crush on Fleur and it's just not true!" I shouted.

I heard a clink of a spoon on a cup and knew, with a sinking feeling, that people were watching and had overheard.

"Ladies, please," Harry sighed, grabbing Draco by the wrist and yanking him down into a chair. "Have a seat."

"You're making a bloody scene," Ron coughed awkwardly.

I planted myself in my chair, clutching at the armrest and kneading it as if it would relieve my anxiety.

" _Why,_ Draco," I hissed, "are you _so_ obsessed with this insane lesbian fantasy of yours?"

"Why are _you_?" he shot back, smiling sweetly at me.

I rolled my eyes, sinking my fingertips into the overstuffed arm of the  chair.

"In case you've forgotten, Draco, I've dated men. I date men. I like men. Perhaps I don't like them quite as much as you do, but I feel that you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone who does. I've dated a lot of men, Draco, one of whom is sitting in front of you," I grated, trying to stay calm.

He raised his eyebrows and flicked ash off of his cigarette and said, "Darling, the fact that you were with Ron for so long is more than enough reason for me to question your sexuality."

"I resent that!" Ron whined.

"Well, you can question it all you want, Draco, but I'm quite sure of it," I insisted.

He grinned playfully, knowing that he had succeeded in mashing my buttons in all sorts of uncomfortable ways. His silver-green eyes met mine and he quirked an eyebrow as I looked away, directing my gaze instead at the sky, at the moon that was swelling to full.

"Of course, darling," he drawled. "Of course."

\---

"That man!" I hissed, storming into my apartment a few hours later and slamming the door behind me.

Crookshanks let out a matching hiss and shot out from behind the umbrella stand by the door, skulking away and giving me a dirty look as he went. He moved with surprising speed for a cat of his age and girth.

"He's impossible, Crookshanks. An impossible, bloody idiot. Bloody Malfoy."

I huffed into my bedroom, squirming out of my work clothes and heading to the bathroom for a shower to cool me down. Once in the shower, I sighed, resting my head against the tile wall and taking in a heavy breath of steam. Water spattered on the tiles around me, flattening my hair and turning it dark against my skin.

"Idiot Malfoy," I grumbled, closing my eyes. "Idiot."

I had come to love Draco dearly, but he really hadn't changed much. He had become considerably less evil, of course, but was still a malicious little toad who, every now and then, I would have loved to strangle. He was just as stubborn as ever, and took perhaps even more delight in verbally torturing others, if at all possible. His love of torture seems to be a family trait. Scrubbing vigorously, I shampooed and conditioned my hair, praying for some sort of miracle that would just tame it for good, as well as for a miracle that Draco would become magically mute for a month, or at least until Fleur came back and he had something else to talk about other than his lunatic theory.

_Fleur_.

I snorted, flicking a thick lock of sudsy hair away from my eyes and watching soap swirl into the drain with water.

_Fleur_.

What was there to like about her? Why would I like her, anyway? She was just a conceited, snooty divorcee. I didn't like her. She wasn't a bad person, and she certainly had her rare and shining moments of genuineness and kindness, but I just didn't like her- especially not in the way that Draco was so determined to think that I did. She was cold and haughty, and had a habit of looking down her nose at everyone and everything with that maddeningly neutral stare that she'd somehow mastered over her lifetime. She had more money than god, and owned shoes that must have cost more than my entire wardrobe. She walked with the confident, nearly arrogant, slightly menacing air of a gunslinger; she was always on the prowl. Her very bone structure was as elegant as a cat's, and she seemed to carry her weight effortlessly but with a strange smoothness not unlike a predator hunting. She looked like the ideal, well-bred, well-made princess of yore, and had a devastatingly sharp wit and tongue to match. I, on the other hand, looked too much like peasant stock. Her eyes were arctic, both in colour and in feel, sending shivers down my spine every time she looked at me for too long; I often wondered if Veelas had bred with basilisks somehow somewhere in their ancestry and inherited the paralyzing stare. The fact that I wanted to run my fingers through her beautiful winter wheat hair was neither here nor there, and just because I wanted to know what her cream-fair skin felt like certainly didn't mean that I fancied a romp in the sack with her. That I retreated into my head whenever she was near was inconsequential.

I sighed, washing the last bit of conditioner out of my hair. I let the shower spray on me for a while still, just letting the hot water pelt at my skin to wash away the residue of the day. After a few more minutes, I stepped out, wrapping myself in my robe and padding around the flat. I had just settled into my reading chair with a book about magical creatures that I had picked out from the library a few days ago when I heard a knock at my door.

"Hermione," Draco called.

I rolled my eyes, pulling my robe tighter around myself and getting up to answer the door. Pulling it open, I walked away before he could even greet me, telling him to lock the door behind him. Draco headed into the living room where I had just been and curled up in an arm chair, scooping Crookshanks up in his lap. He had always loved that surly cat for some reason. He rubbed Crookshanks behind the ears, smiling a little as the giant ginger cat purred contentedly.

"So," he began, sounding a little uncomfortable.

"I'm not gay," I snapped, tugging my book into my lap and pointedly hoisting it up to make it appear as if I were reading.

"Harry sent me here," he groaned, sighing loudly. "I'm meant to apologize or something."

"You?" I asked dubiously. "Apologize? Do you even know how?"

"No," he admitted. "Not really. Not well. Not without gagging, anyway."

"I wasn't aware you had a gag reflex anymore," I said dryly, eyeing him over the edge of my book.

"Ouch," he quipped, eyebrows rising.

"You're not exactly what I'd call modest, Draco."

"Point taken. Like a javelin to the chest."

"What do you really want?" I sighed, setting my book down and sweeping my wet hair over my shoulder.

"I told you, I was meant to come here to apologize to you for being 'utterly insensitive and for being a relentless bully'," he said, the last part sounding as if it had been spoon-fed to him by Harry (and it probably had been) and rehearsed (also very likely).

"Well?" I huffed. "I'm waiting for my apology."

Draco grimaced, looking as if he tasted something bad.

"I'm s-" he tried, a scowl marring his features. "I'm sor- Oh, Merlin. I'm bad at this. Hermione, you know I'm bitchy and you know that I'm right. Why should I apologize for being right?"

"You weren't meant to apologize for being right or wrong, Draco. You were meant to apologize for being an intolerable wretch."

He crossed his arms over his chest and pouted, staring at me out of the corner of his eye.

"You know, I wouldn't do it so much if I didn't get such a rise out of you every time."

I ducked my head, staring intently at the wall.

"It's a bit of a touchy subject, Draco," I murmured, playing with the fabric at the end of my sleeves.

"Why is that?"

"Why does it matter? It just is," I said grumpily, taking my turn to cross my arms.

He raised an eyebrow at me. I looked everywhere but at him, trying to find my wand so that I could apparate away and wondering if the cat toy on the floor by the couch was perhaps a portkey. I took a deep breath.

"Familiarity breeds contempt," I began. "And, of all the men with whom I've been familiar, none of them have done anything to keep my interest. They're just...not enough. They don't challenge me, Draco. We have nothing to talk about. All they want is sex or Quidditch or food. It's like each one after Krum was just another Krum with different hair, and dumber. And..."

"And?" Draco pressed, looking anxious.

"And I don't know what that means. Maybe I'm just hitting a rough spot with dating. I'm not sure."

Draco clicked his tongue, looking disappointed.

"Well, that was anticlimactic," he complained. "I was expecting something like, 'Oh, Draco! Men are so useless and I hate them. They're all wrong for me. Maybe I need a woman.'"

I snorted, "You wish. I could never be with a woman. Please, I have enough of a time trying to deal with you, and you're only half female."

"As much time as I spend on my hair?" he scoffed. "At least three-quarters, darling. Give me more credit. So my teasing stresses you out because you're tired of men?"

"Well, no. Yes? I'm not sure. I just...men really are hopeless, Draco. They just don't get it. They're attractive enough, but they just don't get it. And your teasing just puts weird thoughts into my head, is all."

He perked up, demanding, "Really, now? Like what?"

I groaned, hiding my face in my hands and muttering, "Like how much easier my life would probably be if I were a lesbian. Imagine, a woman would probably notice if you cut three inches of your hair off or if you switched perfumes. Small things like that. She'd actually want to watch horrible, sappy movies with you and wouldn't think you strange if you cried during it."

Draco laughed, getting up and pulling my hands away from my face and peering into my eyes.

"I'm sorry," he chuckled. "But can you repeat that? You were mumbling a little and covering your face. I'm not quite sure if I heard you properly, but I think I just heard you say that you think your life would be easier if you were a lesbian."

I smacked him on the chest, pushing him lightly.

"And women are more sensitive!" I griped, giving him a dirty look. "They're sensitive and know when to drop it and stop making fun, Draco."

Draco sat on the floor and folded his legs underneath him, tickling Crookshanks under one of his many chins as soon as the ginger cat leapt onto the floor beside him and waddled back into Draco's lap.

"So what's your type?" he asked, eyes bright with interest.

Groaning again, I realized that I should have just kept my mouth shut. What was I thinking, actually admitting to Draco that I thought it would be easier to be with another woman? I was slipping, losing my mind. Really, I must be going insane. Draco would hold this over my head until the day I died.

"I like them tall with tidy hair, strong jaws, and nice shoulders," I responded dryly, knowing what he meant but trying to avoid giving him the answer. "And preferably without a beard. I don't mind a bit of facial hair, but wizards let their beards get out of control."

_I like blue eyes and strong legs and nice hands._

"Oh, you're so clever," he drawled humourlessly. "You know what I meant, and I know that you know that."

"I don't really have a type with women," I sighed. "Unless you've forgotten, Draco, I'm not attracted to them."

_Right? Right. I'm not._

"Right, and I'm a cuddly bunny. How do you find sex with men?"

"By getting drunk and making a lot of mistakes that, unfortunately, lead to an encounter that I can only vaguely remember and a morning-after hangover that I'd like to forget?"

" _So_ clever- should've been in Ravenclaw," he said wryly, narrowing his eyes at me. "Answer my questions or you'll never hear the end of it."

"Am I ever going to hear the end of it anyway?" I grunted, raising an eyebrow at him.

"No, but I have the power to make your life miserable," he whispered ominously. "Well, more miserable. You're doing well enough keeping yourself in the pits."

"It's...mediocre," I answered, feeling slightly embarrassed. "I don't know if there's something wrong with me or what, but it's never really...good or great or spectacular. It just...kind of happens. It starts, then it's over and it's just very..."

"Anticlimactic?"

"Anticlimactic," I agreed sourly, remembering all the times that I had been left unfulfilled, especially with Ron. "Wholly and utterly anticlimactic. Maybe it's me. There must be something wrong with me."

Draco raised his hand and waved it as if answering a question in class, mimicking the over-eagerness with which I used to launch my hand into the air while we were still in school.

"Draco," I sighed, humouring him.

"I know what's wrong with you," he said gravely. "You're in denial. You're tired of men and have thoughts of being with women but won't admit that you're attracted to them. You think sex with men is lousy because you're forcing yourself to be with them when, really, you don't want to be."

"Dogged," I shook my head. "You simply will not give up, will you?"

"I'm as hard-headed as you are," he replied, playing with Crookshanks' tail. "You're seriously the worst case of denial I've ever seen. You're worse than even Harry was, and that's saying something."

Crookshanks purred loudly, rubbing up against Draco's side and swatting at his hand when he stopped scratching Crookshanks' head. He curled up in Draco's lap happily, tail twitching as he affectionately gnawed on Draco's fingertips.

"For the longest time, Harry just kept denying it. 'Draco, I'm not gay.' It was getting old, really. I mean, how straight could you possibly be if you eyeball another man like he's a steak and you're a hungry hippogriff? I guess he just didn't want to be. Gay, I mean. He's weird enough, you know? He's a skinny orphan wizard with a scar across the top half of his face. He's blind as a bat and can't dress to save his life, and he defeated the most powerful dark wizard to date. He's a parseltongue and almost child-like in how trusting he is, sometimes. He's good to the point where you have to wonder if he's got a bizarre hero complex or if he's just so naive that he has faith in everything or if you're just too jaded for your age. I guess he felt like being gay and being open about it and being with someone would just be yet another anomaly to add to his already impressive list."

I nodded slightly, recalling the many times that Harry had to come to me in a panic, wringing his hands and flattening his hair with his palms like he was wont to do when he was nervous. I remembered how he had paced circle within circle in my bedroom, hyperventilating about how he had to break up with Ginny because he wanted to be with Draco, how he didn't want to hurt Ginny but he just really couldn't lie to himself or anyone else anymore, how he hated himself and wondered if he would be a disappointment to his parents, and how he was terrified of what Ron would think if he knew and how Ron would kill him if he hurt Ginny. It was one of the few times that I had seen Harry truly, truly vulnerable: he held onto me for dear life as he drowned in confusion and tears, hating himself and wishing he were something else, wishing that he still had the endurance to continue to be who he was, not just to live up to the expectations that everyone had pushed onto him. I knew the feeling, perhaps a little more than I would like to admit. I was familiar with denying myself what I wanted in order to accomplish what others wanted of me. I turned down dates, avoided contact, and distanced myself from people so I could focus on my studies.

"But he got to his breaking point and, eventually, he learned to just let it go and let it be. He was afraid of the stereotype, of the lifestyle, and of what people would think of him because of it. Not all gay men are like me, Hermione. I'm sure you know that. There are men like Harry who, unless they told you, you'd never know. Not all lesbians look like Millicent Bullstrode, and don't even try telling me that she wasn't, because...wow, was she ever. There are people who defy the stereotypes. It's nothing to be ashamed of, and it's really not a choice that we make for ourselves. I may be a fruitcake, but I truly believe that it takes a brave person to be gay and to be open about it. It's hard to deal with the people who hate you because of it, but who needs them? Who you love or lust after is no more a conscious decision on your part than it is on the moon's as to which ocean will respond most to its tides."

I raised an eyebrow, surprised at Draco's sudden bout of eloquence that, for once, wasn't laden with insults or smart-ass comments. I was even more surprised to find that I agreed with him.

"You're surprisingly insightful sometimes," I said quietly. "And eloquent."

"I'm just saying, Hermione, that even if you're scared stiff you should just go with what your heart needs and what your body wants. Fuck the stereotypes and the people who lay them out. Forget about them. It's about what you want and what you need, not what they want to see. Just be true to yourself. If you're attracted to someone, regardless of who it is, just give it a chance. You never know. Who would have thought that Harry and I would be so happy together or even together at all?"

I felt myself shrinking into my chair as a strange wave of something like dread and dizziness hit me. It wasn't a new notion to me at all, being gay. It had crossed my mind many a time over the years, since I was still attending Muggle school and wanted to always hold my friend Ingrid's hand to when I first noticed that the girls around me were hitting puberty and, really, they looked quite nice with hips. But was I gay, or just observant? I had no idea. I knew that I used to like Ginny, used to want desperately to spend all of my time with her, but wasn't it because she was really the only close friend I had besides for Harry and Ron, and the only girl? I knew that I was disappointed when Cho Chang ended up being a total emotional, boy-crazy basketcase, but wasn't it because I had always admired her for being so very Ravenclaw and so very smart, and athletic and pretty as well? I knew that I had actually kind of enjoyed it when Lavender Brown turned to me one night and asked out of nowhere if she could kiss me, but wasn't it more the smug satisfaction of knowing that Ron was, at the time, dating a total bimbo who didn't seem to have any idea how to snog? I knew that, at one point, I had actually cared for Ron but that it changed when, one night, I realized how much he looked like Ginny, but wasn't that because I felt like Ginny was almost like a little sister to me and didn't that, by proxy, make Ron almost like a brother? I knew that at the Yule Ball, instead of paying attention to Viktor, I had paid much, much more attention to Fleur, but wasn't that because I admired her like I had admired Cho? Wasn't it because Fleur was older than me, more beautiful, more accomplished, maybe not more intelligent but at least just as intelligent, more talented? Wasn't everyone a little infatuated with her because she was part Veela, because she had that ancient magic that made her irresistible and she used it indiscriminately?

Most importantly, did any of my questions have an answer that wasn't, "Oh, Hermione, stop making excuses for yourself?"

Draco looked at the clock on the wall and clicked his tongue, "Well, it's getting on a bit. I'd better head home before Harry thinks I've set myself on you to torture you again."

He stood, resting his hand on my shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

"Sleep on it, alright? Nobody's making you make any decisions or come to any immediate conclusions about yourself. Just...sleep on it. Think about it. Are you going to be alright?"

I reached up and squeezed his hand, suddenly feeling more insecure and confused than I had ever felt.

"Yeah," I lied. "I'll be alright. Good night, Draco."

"Sleep well, darling," he said, bending to kiss me on the cheek. "Don't get up, I'll close the door behind me."

He paused, looking over his shoulder.

"Think of it like food," he said slowly. "If it looks good, eat it."

I sank into my chair.

\---

The next few days were spent in and out of a daze, and I drifted to work and back home with very little recollection of anything. I felt trapped inside of my own head, with nothing to keep me company but Draco's reminder that I didn't have to make any decisions about myself just yet. Food had lost its appeal, and my bed had become uninviting; I was as restless and confused as I had ever been, and even Harry had told me when he saw me last that I looked terrible. Scouring old photographs, I evaluated myself. I had gone through a phase where I had taken a liking to really horrible jumpers, but surely that meant nothing about my sexuality, did it? The year after, I had taken a liking to what Draco liked to call "hideously butch" shoes, but they weren't ugly; they were practical. I sat on the floor of my flat, scowling at a stack of photographs I had spread on the carpet. At the top of the stack, there was a photograph of me in chunky, olive sneakers and a matching jumper. My hair was a mess and I was standing between Harry and Ron, smiling awkwardly and waving. The miniature Hermione in the photograph kept scuffing her toes on the ground and looking around as if bored, dodging Ron's hand as it reached for hers.

"Bugger," I groaned, watching as the tiny Ron grabbed the tiny Hermione's hand and she smiled, looking pained. "That's definitely a strike against me."

I recognized the picture, and it was from right after the time when Ron and I had started dating. Crookshanks curled up into a ginger ball in my lap and meowed.

"Why did you ever let me get those shoes, Crookshanks?" I sighed. "They're ghastly."

A short while later, after I had come to the conclusion that the shoes were, indeed, practical but also tragically hideous, I gathered up my things and put them away neatly in boxes and trunks and on shelves. I had promised Draco that I would meet him, Harry, and Ron at The Wizened Gamut for a bit of brunch with Fleur who, after four days in France, was coming back. My stomach did an odd wiggle as I thought about her, and I spent a little bit of extra time making sure that I didn't pick an awful jumper to wear.

\---

"Hermione, relax," Draco hissed, grabbing my leg under the table to stop it from jiggling restlessly.

"Sorry," I replied. "I just...have twitchy legs, I guess."

He raised an eyebrow at me and I averted my gaze, staring despondently at my salad and coffee.

"You should eat that soon," Ron said thickly around a mouthful of food. "It'll get soggy."

I wrinkled my nose in disgust as I watched him inhale a piece of bread the size of a child's fist.

"Do you stop to breathe while you eat at all?" I asked, exasperated.

 Across the table from Ron, Harry was attacking his steak with great alacrity, elbows flying up in the air as he cut it up and shoveled it down his throat. I shook my head. After all these years, the two of them still ate like dragons and it had yet to catch up to them. Draco, on the other hand, was picking daintily at his quail. I reached into my purse to see if I had brought a book with me when my fingers brushed a crinkled surface. Frowning slightly, I pulled it out to inspect it and recognized the object as Fleur's leftover cigarettes that I had confiscated from Draco.

"Oh, hey, I was looking for those," he chirped, seeing them. "I forgot that you took them."

"Aren't those Fleur's?" Ron questioned, shoving a huge spoonful of mashed potato into his mouth.

"You're disgusting," I told him, looking at him disapprovingly.

"I'm a growing boy," he said indignantly.

"Ron, you're 25," Harry laughed, watching as his best friend's face fell.

"Right," Ron agreed reluctantly. "Sometimes I forget that I can't really use that excuse anymore."

"Where is Fleur, anyway?" Harry wondered. "I thought she said she was meeting us here for brunch. She's always on time for everything, very punctual. It's not like her to be late."

"I agree," a foreign voice said, and I nearly leapt out of my skin.

I looked up and Fleur was standing behind Harry, holding a cup of coffee (hazelnut- I knew by now that she took it black, with no cream or sugar). She smiled apologetically and sat it down on the table beside Ron (away from me, I noticed). My hands shook as I reached for my fork.

_Magic. She likes to sneak up on people so that they won't be able to brace themselves. So Veela. So animalistic. So basic. Calculating, predatory, manipulative woman. One day, we'll all walk in on her eating Ron's brains with a spoon._

"I'm sorry to be so late," she began, settling into her chair. "It's very rude of me to keep you waiting; I was a little slow in getting my things back to my apartment. I ordered inside."

"Oh, it's quite alright," Draco beamed at her. "So how was France? Did you have fun?"

Fleur smiled placidly, taking a sip of her coffee before replying carefully, "It was nice to be home and to see my family. They kept me quite busy."

I caught myself staring at her and blushed, stabbing at my salad with surprising energy and spearing a crouton with my fork and shoving it into my mouth to have a reason not to talk. It was still early in the day and it wasn't that hot, but I still found it a little bit odd that she was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. The neck of it was wide, and I could see the beginning slopes of where her neck and shoulder met, and wondered if perhaps the sheerness of the white material was fooling my eyes or if there seemed to be bruises on her shoulders.

"Oh?" Ron stammered. "Is that all, then? Didn't go visit any lucky bloke to keep you busy?"

I saw his face purple and contort into a wince as Draco, no doubt, kicked him sharply underneath the table.

"Or lady," Ron said quickly, shooting Draco a wounded look. "Or a lucky lady. Whatever works for you."

Draco rolled his eyes, "Ron, honestly. That's not why I kicked you."

"Oh."

Fleur laughed, and I noticed that her voice seemed a little deeper than usual and that it seemed a little raspy and breathy, rough where it had before been smooth.

_Magic. Think, Granger. What did I eat for dinner last night? Bollocks, I don't remember. Pasta? No, wasn't it chicken? Was it chicken? What are those bruises? Probably just rough sex. With several people. She seems like that kind of person._

__Images of Fleur, flushed and covered by a light sheen of sweat, panting and-

_For the love of libraries, Granger, get a grip. It's her magic._

__I felt shaken and like my chair was threatening to buckle underneath me, not from my weight but because suddenly everything seemed completely unbalanced. Her eyes met mine and my mind nearly went blank, threads of thought only becoming distinct again when I shook my head forcibly and looked away.

_Those damn eyes.  
_  
"No," she murmured. "There is no one in France. I was with my family all the time."

Her voice broke a little and she cleared her throat, excusing herself.

"Excuse me," she coughed lightly. "I think I caught something from Gabrielle while I was home."

I stared at her, noticing dark circles under her eyes that hadn't been there before she left. Her hair was swept away from her face, but it seemed to hang limp around her shoulders. Her cheekbones, though always strong, seemed particularly sharp today. She looked exhausted, but far beyond exhausted. It was as if she were barely animate, like she passed exhausted and came out on the other side, but just barely. 

"You look terrible," I blurted, unable to stop myself.

I wondered when I had lost control of my speech centers and fought the urge to crawl underneath the table to hide my shame. She looked surprised.

"Said with all the subtlety of a killing curse," Draco sighed, shaking his head at me.

I immediately regretted what I said, but decided that I would be damned if I apologized. I steeled myself and stared at her instead, watching as a strange expression washed over her face. Something cold and ancient stared back at me from behind Fleur's eyes and I wanted to dive headfirst into a book, both to hide and to find out whether I was seeing the Veela blood in her coming alive or if I really had just offended her _that_ deeply. She narrowed her eyes at me and spoke to Draco, her gaze never leaving mine. It was like I was in a full-body bind or had become stone: I couldn't move, I couldn't look away.

"I expected nothing less from her," she said quietly, in a low, dangerous voice.

I cringed as if frostbitten, despite the sunshine. There was something predatory and angry about her.

"I don't know what you're going on about," Ron gawped. "You look wonderful, Fleur."

She smiled a little thinly at him and said, "That's very kind of you, Ronald."

"Really, though," Harry added. "You look great. You always do. If only I looked as good on my bad days."

Draco nodded and I shook my head, puzzled, wondering which Fleur they were looking at. Surely, they were looking at entirely different woman than I was; she looked run-down, haggard, and pale. There were shadows on her face, her eyes were lackluster, and even her lips looked a little chapped. Surely they noticed the odd tinge of darkness about her, the off-colour of malice lingering in the whites of her eyes, the square set of her jaw, the tension and raggedness in her posture? She was still pretty, of course, because Fleur could be on the brink of death and still look magnificent, but she was certainly not herself. She reached for her coffee and her sleeve slipped up and I jumped, taken aback by what I saw.

"What's wrong with your arm?" I gasped, alarmed.

"What?" Draco demanded.

"Not you. Fleur, what's wrong with your arm?" I repeated.

She looked at me steadily and said, "What are you talking about?"

"Were you attacked by something?" I asked.

Her entire forearm looked bruised as if she had been beaten, and it was covered in scratches. Her wrist, most notably, looked as if it had been chaffed raw in a perfect ring; her skin was red and irritated, and looked as if it had just undergone a major healing for a major wound. I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd said yes; I was familiar with friends suddenly disappearing to go on secret missions and not explaining themselves. But the entire Wizarding World was at peace and everyone was enjoying it. There was no reason that I could think of for her to go on secret missions.

"Were _you_?" Draco questioned, looking at me as if I were mad. "She looks fine to me."

"What?" I snapped. "Draco, don't tell me you don't see that. It looks like something tried to eat her arm!"

Her gaze never wavered from mine, but she tugged her sleeve down pointedly and folded her hands in her lap just as her salad arrived.

"I think that perhaps the sun is playing tricks on your eyes," she murmured elusively, taking a bite of her meal.

I looked at her suspiciously, and she trained her eyes upon mine, keeping her face perfectly neutral and untelling.

\---

Draco walked beside me in the cobbled, crooked, quaint streets of Diagon Alley; the building tops above us loomed haphazardly as if the buildings had been built in a rush. Wizard architecture really was very fascinating in that it rejected the Muggle preference for everything to be perfect and tidy, all measured and straight lines.

"I don't know, Hermione," he mused. "I really think that you just need more sleep. I didn't notice anything different about her at all. She looked just fine; beautiful, resplendent. Like she always does."

"No," I insisted, turning a corner to head toward a familiar bakery. "You're barking mad. I can't believe you missed it, Draco. Her arm looked as if she'd stuck it into a crate of Blast-Ended Skrewts."

"You're the one who's barking," he shot back, glancing back at me. "I saw her arm, Hermione. I saw her shoulders. I saw her face. You're hallucinating. The bruises that you insist were there, weren't there. Maybe you're just...I don't know, looking at her a little differently because...you know."

I bristled and flicked him on the back of the head.

"Oy!" he whined, smoothing his hair.

"What are you insinuating?" I trilled, instantly lowering my voice and pretending to look interested in the cheesecake once the shopkeeper gave me a dirty look.

"That you're just looking at her a little differently after that talk we had about you-know-what," he said carefully, watching my hand warily.

"I don't like her like that! I'm not-" I began defensively, stopping when he crossed his arms and frowned at me.

"I thought we agreed that you were going to keep an open mind and try not to let your fear of societal expectations make your decisions for you," he preached, reaching into his back pocket to retrieve his coin purse. "I'll have two pumpkin pasties, please."

The small old woman behind the counter smiled at Draco and shuffled off to get him his pasties.

"Well," I said lamely. "I just...I don't know. I'm still confused, Draco. I don't know what to do. It's not like I can talk to her about it."

"Of course you can," he scoffed, pulling a few Sickles out of his coin purse. "You'll go talk to her after we leave here."

"What?" I almost shrieked.

The old woman gave me a scathing look before smiling sweetly at Draco and asking, "Will that be all, dear?"

"You know what," Draco mused, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "I'll have one of whatever's the sweetiest, goopiest, chocolatiest thing you've got."

I quirked an eyebrow at him and said, "That'd be at least thrice _your_ normal caloric intake per _week_ , wouldn't it?"

"Oh, Merlin, yes," he laughed. "It's not for me. It's for Ron. Honestly, sometimes I feel like he's my child. It's hard living right next door to your boyfriend's best friend. He's always over, watching Quidditch or talking about Quidditch or steak or meat or camping or...plaid or....some other horrid, horrid manly thing. And he's come so close to eating us out of house and home so many times. He always sulks and pouts about if I come back from the bakery and I don't have something for him. It's better to just appease him than to put up with his grumbling."

"Can I help you?" the old woman asked me, eyeing me a little dubiously.

I cleared my throat, suddenly feeling obligated to buy something.

"I- ah..." I said haltingly.

"Do you have of those fruit tarts? With the fresh fruit on top, like kiwis and strawberries and all that?" Draco asked her, grinning at her fit to melt her heart.

I sighed, at once appalled and relieved that Draco had taken to using his uncanny talents for manipulation for a less malicious reason.

"Just made some this morning," she said cheerfully.

"She'll take two," he answered for me, stepping aside to let me pay for it.

"Two?" I grunted. "Back-handed fat joke, Draco?"

"No," he tutted. "One is for you, the other is for Fleur. I took her here once, and she really liked those fruit tarts. You'll go take one to her and talk to her."

"Like hell I will!" I coughed, seized by fear.

Draco wiggled a few sickles out of my coin purse and handed them to the old woman, grabbing my bag of tarts and hauling me out of the shop.

"Like hell you will," he insisted firmly. "You can't keep dodging it forever, Hermione. You're going to have to talk to her eventually."

"What am I going to say, Draco?" I wailed, wringing my hands. "'Hi, Fleur. I know I've been really terrible to you _for the past decade or so_ , but I hope it's alright. Oh, by the way, I got us some fruit tarts, because Draco thinks I'm fruity and tarty, even though I'm not. He insists that you would be the best choice for my first lesbian experience.'"

"We've really got to work on that smart-assedness of yours," he sighed, handing me the paper bag of pastries.

I slumped into a bench and hung my head, "Draco, I can't do this. This is ridiculous. Why should I tell her, anyway? Why would it matter to her whether or not I liked her? I would just be another, one of a million. A hundred million. A billion. God, anyone who _looks_ at her for too long is smitten with her! Why should I matter?"

Draco sighed, sitting beside me and resting his arm over the back of the chair.

"Do you like her?" he asked forwardly. "And no smart-assing this time. Just be honest, and plain. What do you think of Fleur?"

"I don't know!" I cried, frustrated. "I think she's pretty, but who doesn't? Draco, why are you so determined to make this into something it isn't?"

I was so confused that I wanted to scream and then bury myself in a pile of books, if only to remind myself that I had the ability to make sense of everything. I understood things. I was not one to be stumped or confused or duped; I was witty and clever. True, that there were more important things, but it was the most important skill I had: to make sense of things. And right now, nothing was making sense. My head had never been so jumbled before; everything was usually so organized and neat and put in its own little compartment to deal with when I saw fit. Had my brain been a room, all of the tables and chairs would have been upturned and all the drawers pulled out with their contents strewn on the floor. I had never encountered anything so confusing before that I felt like I had literally slammed into a brick wall face first. I valued my intellect above everything else about myself, and now it was useless. What good would a book do me now? I was confused, and I was mad because I was confused, and I was confused about why I was so mad. Everything spun into a tight circle, all matters indistinct and all of them seeming to lead only to _her_.

Draco frowned, grabbing my face and turning it so that I was staring him straight in the eyes.

"What do you think of Fleur?" he repeated firmly, his grip on my jaw just as unyielding as his tone.

"I think she's pretty," I repeated, digging through the archives of my brain for better words but finding none. "I think she's pretty and smart and elegant and kind. She's welcoming and she's actually kind of funny sometimes. She's mysterious and clever and interesting and..."

I swallowed hard, wondering when my vocabulary had diminished.

"And?" Draco pressed.

"And I can't stop thinking about her. And it pisses me off, because she's like a cloying fog in my brain. I can't think straight; I can hardly think at all. I'm Hermione Granger, Draco. That's all I'm good for: thinking. That's all I do. And I can't do it when she's around, and it drives me mad. I want to be nice to her but the words just won't come. I resent her for making me feel like my brain is turning to mush, and even more because I'm almost certain that she knows it and is doing it to spite me. She's just playing with me like she does with everyone else; she's toying with me just because she can. She knows I value my brain and she's getting some sort of sadistic joy out of melting it. I hate her for it because I want her to stop, but also because I think I wish she had a different reason for doing it other than just because she can."

"Don't you think that you'd want to know if someone felt so strongly about you?" he asked. "Wouldn't you want to know? I think she has a right to know, Hermione."

"It won't matter," I said sullenly. "I can't sleep, Draco. I can't eat. All I've been doing since she left is thinking about her, obsessing about her, wondering what it is exactly that I feel about her- if, anything at all. And I mean...I guess I _am_ attracted to her, but I could never act on it. I'm too afraid. And like she'd care. She could have anyone she wants, and she knows it. Why would she even look twice in my direction?"

"I don't know, but she has been," he said gently.

I felt as if I'd been struck by thunder.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You scowl at her all day and when she looks up to meet your gaze, you look away. Every time she looks at you, you look away. It's like you two are playing eye tag or something. When you aren't glaring daggers at her, you look like you're undressing her with your eyes. It's horrible to watch, because it's so obvious that you two just want to look at each other but you keep missing, or you mess it up by looking at her like someone's dog just pissed on your trouser leg."

I swallowed hard and reached up to twist my fingers into my hair, an old habit that I had never quite kicked.

"She's probably just sizing me up, looking for a weakness," I mumbled, twirling my hair as my heart slammed against my ribcage, remembering how our eyes had dueled over lunch. "She comes from a long line of predators, you know. Man-eaters. She's a man-eater, Draco."

I tried to keep eye contact with her for as long as I was able, which wasn't long, taking into consideration the subtle change in the arch and set of her eyebrows that suggested she was within an inch of flaying me bare. I shivered at the intensity. Draco was insane. Did he even know what he had just implied? Fleur Delacour, attracted to _me?_ After years of slathering his head with product, it seemed that it had finally seeped through his skull and into his brain and made him utterly mad.

"Call it what you will. I'm headed home. Go see her."

He stood, stretching his long legs, and began to saunter off, taking his time and looking around. It was odd to me to see him like this sometimes, after so many years of so much turmoil. How had he become so different, so skewed toward the light and the good and the positive?

_Familiarity breeds contempt_.

I suppose it was true, for Draco especially. After years of suffering the darkness in his father's shadow, he had grown to hate the dark and the doubt and fear that it bred. Maybe that's why he was so adamant about making me face Fleur and, incidentally, myself. Making sure to pick up the bag from the bakery, I stood and headed toward Fleur's flat with something akin to resignation looming in my belly.

\---

I had been staring at the golden numbers on her front door for three minutes and forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine seconds; perhaps if I stared at it for another minute or two, I could will my arm into knocking.

"This is ridiculous," I hissed to myself, chewing my lip and exhaling hard through my nose.

I knocked, long-dormant butterflies erupting from cocoons within my stomach the second my knuckles touched wood.

_It's just Fleur. You're just....bringing her some fruit tarts that Draco bought. There, that's your story. Stick to it._

I heard footsteps on the wooden floor on the other side of the wooden door and, all of a sudden, my legs felt quite wooden themselves.

_Hi, Fleur. I'm just here to bring you some fruit tarts. Draco wanted to get you something because you couldn't stay for dessert with us after brunch._

__"Just a minute," Fleur called, and all of the moisture in my mouth disappeared.

My tongue felt like sandpaper.

_Hi, Fleur. Draco got you some fruit tarts because you didn't stay for dessert. It's probably because I was being a jerk, as always. I can't really control it. I don't know why. You're so beautiful and so confusing. You make me forget who I am. I'm going to leave now, and probably jump off a bridge._

__Her footsteps drew nearer and I wanted to run.

_Hi, Fleur. Got you some fruit tarts. Bye._

__The door creaked open and, once again, I felt as if I had been struck by thunder or at least a heavy stick.

_Hi, Fleur. I want you._

"Hermione," she said, sounding very surprised and very, very tired. "Come in, please."

"Hi," I greeted weakly, my mouth a desert and my mind a wasteland.

I turned to look at her, mulling over which discourse to use as I turned. All of my words were lost, however, the second I actually got a good look at her. Her hair was pulled up and away from her face in a messy bun, strands escaping to lie in playful wisps around her neck. She was wearing the same sheer white shirt from before and, as far as I could tell, no pants. I swallowed hard, thrusting the bag of pastries at her.

"Fruit tarts," I yelped, suddenly inarticulate. "From Draco."

She smiled, perhaps a little tightly, and accepted the bag with a nod of thanks. Walking with bare feet across the floor, she brought them to her refrigerator and set them inside; Draco was right, she really did have legs for days.

"You'll have to excuse my attire, or lack thereof," she murmured, clearing her throat. "I was just outside on the verandah, sunbathing."

_That explains the absence of pants._

I looked at her again, at her messy hair and her sloping collarbones, pointing at an angle to her breasts. Through the shirt, I could see that she had foregone a bra or bathing suit top of any kind. My pulse quickened a little.

_And the absence of a bra._

It seemed as if she had hastily pulled the shirt on to answer the door; all of a sudden, the moisture that had disappeared from my mouth reappeared in my palms. I scratched my head awkwardly and she raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest.

_Bloody hell, did she just catch me staring? Calm. Stay calm. It's her magic. She took you by surprise again. Honestly, who answers the doors with no pants on?_

__"So," she began, sitting on the couch and turning to me. "What brings you here?"

Her face was solemn and impassive, the same as it had been the last time I saw her. I understood, though, and I accepted it; I deserved her impassiveness. After all, I hadn't even welcomed her back; the first thing I had said to her was that she looked terrible. To add insult to injury, I seemed to have completely hallucinated horrible wounds on her that were apparently not there- according to Draco, anyway.

"Fruit tarts," I said again dumbly.

She looked at me, skepticism writ more sharply on her face than the contours of her stunning cheekbones. She crossed her legs, coltish and white.

"Uh," I bumbled. "I mean...I wanted to-"

My speech spluttered to a stop and I kicked myself, willing myself to think of something other than her stunning cheekbones and coltish legs.

_I want you_.

Fleur raised an eyebrow at me, looking both curious and impatient. I watched  as she lit a cigarette and took a drag. I wanted to ask her how she knew that she was attracted to women in a sexual way instead of in just a platonic way; where did the line lie and how was it different on either side? I wanted to ask how it felt, how to deal with it, what to do, where to take it after you edged toward the point of admitting it to yourself. I wanted to ask her if what Draco said was true, that she had tried to catch my eye just as I looked away. I wanted to ask her all of these things, but I felt the sway of confusion sinking in again. Her very presence made my head feel fuzzy. I felt her eyes on me and, chewing my lip furiously, I looked up to meet her gaze. She turned her head, eyes flicking away. I saw her jaw set and, for a fleeting moment, felt an urge to trace its line with my fingertips; the next, I felt an urge to slap her for having the nerve to act as if we hadn't been inches from assaulting each other over our salads during lunch.

I gave in to the tug of confusion and crossed my arms over my chest defensively and asked, "Why are you doing this to me?"

She raised an eyebrow and I watched as a plume of blue smoke escaped from her lips and curled toward the ceiling.

_That came out all wrong_.

"Why am I doing what to you?" she asked, voice neutral.

"I don't know," I sighed, exasperated. "Whatever it is you're doing to make me feel like this."

"And how is that?"

"Confused!" I snapped, voice rising. "You make me confused, Fleur. More confused than I have ever been about anything, and I don't think you understand the gravity of that admittance. I don't get confused about things, Fleur, least of all _women_."

_This is coming out so wrong_.

"I'm afraid I do not understand," she murmured, pursing her lips lightly and blowing smoke through her nose.

"I'm not g-" I stopped myself. "I date men, Fleur."

"So do I," she said blandly.

"Only men. And I have no problem with people who like both."

"Hermione," she sighed loudly. "If this is some sort of politically-correct disclaimer about how much you love gays, then I have no need to hear it. I assumed that you did, seeing as how two of your closest friends are gay and partners. I don't need to you reassure me that you have no problem with accepting me into your circle."

_This is not at all what I wanted._

She sounded as if she'd given this speech a million times before. Fleur pinched the bridge of her nose and frowned, looking irritated.

"It's not any sort of disclaimer. You're up to something, and I know you are. So whatever you're doing, you need to stop. You're hiding something and you're playing dumb about it. I know that you're just doing this to spite me, to confuse me, to get back at me for being rude- I don't know; I don't appreciate it, whatever you're doing! I don't know what you want from me, but I don't like being played, Fleur!"

Her frown deepened and she exhaled loudly.

"Tu es imposible," she muttered, her voice pitched deep and low, vibrating in her throat with smoke.

"Excuse me?" I demanded, my voice rising in pitch. "Don't you lapse into your mother tongue with me!"

She laughed sharply, crushing her cigarette into an ashtray and beginning to mutter to herself in French. Years of spending holidays in France had honed my French, but I was far from fluent; I did, however, pick up snatches of words that sounded like "hard-headed" and "annoying."

"Did you even hear me?" I fumed, getting to my feet.

She flicked her hair agitatedly away from her face and she got to her feet, eyeing me coldly.

"I will speak in whatever language I know and please! This is _my_ home! _Merde!_ " she snapped, and I was surprised; I'd never heard her so angry before.

"If you're going to insult me, then at least do it so that I can understand! You don't have to do it in French to spare my feelings; I know that you hate me!" I shouted back, my hands balling into fists.

I could feel blood rushing to my cheeks as my heartbeat quickened for all the wrong reasons, and I gritted my teeth in frustration, wanting to just shove her and yell at her. She was sizing me up, I could tell; her piercing eyes flicked restlessly over me, again and again.

"Sometimes I wish I could!" she retorted, seeming to stretch to her full and impressive height.

Our eyes met and locked; we exchanged glares, stubbornly keeping unwavering eye contact as if planning to curse the other.

"What-" I opened my mouth.

Fleur interrupted, "What did I do to you, Hermione? What did I _ever_ do to you that you cannot even say a civil 'hello'  or a civil _anything_? What did I do that you can't seem to want me, no matter what I do, no matter how welcoming or how kind I am to you?"

_Can't seem to what, now?_

I felt, for the millionth time that day, as if I had been struck by lightning. There seemed to be a storm revolving around her at all times, one that took its time in striking me when it so pleased. My legs felt rooted and wooden, but like they were going to buckle.

_Did she just...?_

"Excuse me?" I asked dumbly.

" _Imposible_!" she said, voice rising and sounding more desperate and hysterical than I had ever heard before; her calm was slipping. "Have you noticed at all that I have opened my home and my arms to you and you have shoved my welcome back in my face with no provocation or reason? When have I given you a reason to hate me like you do? Have you stopped to think that, maybe in this circumstance, you are less the victim than I am, given that you antagonize me for no reason? Will you refuse me forever?"

Her face was flushing and I was surprised; I had never seen anything but cool or neutral colours on Fleur before. The words flying out of her mouth barely even made sense to me, and it wasn't just because her anger slurred her words with her accent; I felt like my brain had broken.

"You have some sort of insane martyr complex where you are always feeling sorry for yourself, but you cannot be moved to give an ounce of pity to anyone else! You are complicated, too complicated. You make things more difficult on yourself, on others, and on _me_ than they should be! You are selfish, patronizing, self-pitying, stubborn, and..."

Suddenly, what she was saying didn't matter anymore. Somewhere deep in my brain, I knew that she was hurling insults at me with the same speed and accuracy of a duelist hurling hexes and curses, but it didn't matter because, all of a sudden, all I could understand was that her mouth was a perfect cupid's bow and her eyes were the perfect mix of all of my favourite shades of blue. My head was swimming and my nerves were singing and I knew through a haze that I was about to make a horrible mistake.

I overstepped my boundaries slightly before I overstepped them completely.

"Shut up," I whispered, taking a step toward her.

" _Excuse moi-_ " she began.

I cut her off, taking more steps toward her until we were face to face. We were a hair's breadth apart, and I looked up at her. She looked terrified. I stretched up on my toes and kissed her, a soft and chaste press of the lips that made me feel like the bottom of my stomach had just dropped out and that my lungs and heart were on the way. It was irrational and irresponsible and stupid and perfect and I knew that I would regret it shortly. My heart bucked unpleasantly in my chest, fit to burst out of my ribcage; the world felt like it had been thrown into a rapid backspin and the floor was caving in beneath my feet.

And that was all before she started kissing me back.

I had been close to death before, but I had never felt this close to it. Her spine softened from the ramrod-straight shock and her shoulders relaxed just as her eyebrows did. I felt her fingers on my jaw and then her hand on my face and I thought I was either going to get sick or die. Her fingertips were cool against my skin, and her lips were gentle but insistent. She smelled like lilies, and it was warm and intoxicating and made me feel light-headed. She tasted like sweet liquor and, very faintly, cigarettes; I found myself leaning into her and felt my stomach flutter when her fingers began to curl gently into my hair. I was petrified.

I closed my eyes and deepened the kiss, looping my arms around her neck and crushing myself against her with abandon. The sensation of her hands sliding down to grip my waist jolted me like an electric shock and, seizing her wrists in my hands and pushing them away, I twisted away from her and stumbled backward with wide eyes and wet lips.

"Hermio-" she began.

Her eyes were hazy and half-lidded still when I walked backward to the door, fumbling for the handle.

"I have to go," I whispered, heart fluttering sickeningly in my chest.

"Don't-"

I slammed the door behind me. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleur pursues.

  
**CHAPTER 5  
** FLEUR

 

I missed the sun. I always missed it so desperately every time I had to be locked into the cellar. It was a relief to feel the heat of the sun melting the permafrost that had settled into my bones in the dark and made my muscles stiff. I extended my right leg, rotating my ankle and wincing. My wounds were still healing and, to me, they were still perfectly visible. Thankfully, the Veela charm worked in the way that the Hogwarts protection spell did: people were distracted by the charms and unable to see what was really there. I smiled bitterly, adjusting my aviators on my nose and taking a sip of my scotch before taking a drag of my cigarette, thinking that if I weren't Veela at all I wouldn't have to thank the charm and I wouldn't have had to be locked in the cellar to begin with.

I was indulging myself, and I knew that. I felt entitled to a day of spoiling myself with self-pity, liquor, cigarettes, and topless sunbathing (neighbours be damned) after the awful weekend, and especially this afternoon. Hermione's dismissal of me was that last thing I needed, but it was the first thing that I got. I sighed, downing the rest of my glass and ignoring the slow reel of alcohol beginning to make me feel light-headed and heavy-limbed.

Groaning softly, I rolled over in my lawn chair onto my stomach and rested my face on my bicep, trying to make believe as if the afternoon had not already passed and I had not already seen Hermione, endured her skittishness and awkwardness, and gone home feeling dejected and depressed. I had made no progress whatsoever; she had barely spared me a glance during the entire meal, preferring instead to stare into the apparently entrancing depths of her salad. Personally, I failed to see what was so interesting about arugula.

What _was_ interesting to me was that she alone seemed to be able to see my wounds. Draco, Harry, and Ron were as oblivious to them as they were meant to be, but for some reason Hermione could see them rather clearly despite the Veela magic that was intended to steer her eyes away and despite my own attempts (between make-up and incantations) to conceal them. It was alarming, and I did my best to convince her that she had seen nothing. She did not seem thoroughly convinced.

They had expected me to stay for dessert, of course, but I declined. My appetite was abnormal and I had little desire and ability to eat much of anything, and I was afraid that any amount of sugar would make me ill. Additionally, _her_ very nearness was driving me mad. It was as though I could feel the heat emanating from her skin; it was all I could do to keep myself from staring down the deep vee in the front of the uncharacteristically low-cut shirt she was wearing. The tiny bites of food I took twisted sideways and stuck in my throat. I had had more coffee with my lunch than I had ever intended, which led to me rationalizing that I should go home and have more scotch than is ever necessary for a London afternoon- to balance it out, of course. It was all I could do to keep her at bay, and even the liquor wasn't helping. If anything, it was pressing my defenses down because I kept imagining her sitting on the lawn chair beside me, her head on my back and that thick, decadent hair spilling against my skin as she read densely intellectual sentences out loud from a book. I imagined her fingers drawing nonsensical shapes into my leg while we discussed the aesthetics of old French cinema and why its dryness is considered boring by some when, in truth, it was beautiful while the overly saturated colours and sequences of bad American movies were kitschy but so beloved. She would kiss my shoulder and debate Muggle art with me (something that not even my parents were willing to discuss with me; they never understood why I loved it so much), and we'd talk about whether or not Marcel Duchamp was a genius or just pretentious and untalented or a pretentious and untalented genius.

I had just gotten comfortable, soaking in the sun and my fantasies of touching and talking with Hermione contentedly like a greedy sponge, when I heard an insistent knock on my door. I sighed, pulling off my sunglasses and wondering if it was one of my neighbours' wives knocking angrily on my door to tell me that I was being indecent in full view of their window on purpose because, obviously, it was my life goal to do so. I rolled over, swinging my legs over the side of my chair and reaching for my white shirt, crumpled and formless on the ground. I tugged it carelessly over my head and called, "Just a minute."

I took a quick swig of my drink and walked heavily to the door, tired and annoyed with whoever was knocking on it. Turning the knob, I braced myself; this would not have been the first time a jealous wife had come to harass me about my indecency. My philosophy is, "If you do not want to watch me walk around my house naked, then don't look through my window." I pulled the door open, expecting to see a furious housewife.

Hermione stood at the threshold of my home, a small white paper bag clutched in her hand and a stunned and terrified look on her face. Her eyes were wide and, for one reason or another, breathing seemed difficult for her. Shocked, I took a small step back and pulled the door open further.

"Hermione," I managed to finally say. "Come in, please."

"Hi," she said, voice small as she looked around.

She stepped inside, looking more timid than I had ever seen her and I turned, trying to ignore the wishful fluttering in my lower belly as I felt her eyes sweep over me (or my lack of clothing, rather). I walked ahead of her, grabbing a pack of cigarettes off of a table and putting one between my lips and trying not to look at her because every time I looked at her, I wanted to tangle my fingers in her hair and kiss her senseless.

"Fruit tarts," she rasped, sounding forced and grimacing at the harsh grate of her own voice. "From Draco."

She smiled awkwardly at me and I returned the gesture, accepting the bag and turning to head into the kitchen to put them in the fridge. I wasn't hungry, and I was determined to keep distance between her body and mine. As I straightened my back from stooping, I caught her gaze and looked away quickly, realizing that she must have been wondering why I was so scantily clad.

"You'll have to excuse my attire," I murmured, "or lack thereof. I was just outside on the verandah, sunbathing."

I looked at her, at her chestnut and mahogany hair falling around her face and framing it, loose curls lapping at her collarbones as they peeked out at me from beneath her low-cut shirt. I struggled to swallow what felt like a mixture of sand and gravel in my already sore throat. I choked and prayed that Hermione had not noticed. A strange expression was spread across her face, as if she were unsure of what to think or feel and her face was just as conflicted about what to express: it was an odd mixture of terror and intrigue. Brown eyes met mine briefly and I felt a flash of heat ripple through my body, beginning at my chest and ending at my toes. I strode to the couch and sat, turning to face her.

"So, what brings you here?" I asked, fighting hard to keep my face neutral and trying desperately to ignore the fact that her eyelashes were irresistibly long.

"Fruit tarts," she said flatly as the expression on her face shifted slightly to one that was perhaps more akin to exasperation.

Hermione did not seem to blink for a few beats and, uneasy, I crossed my legs.

She coughed, "I mean, I wanted to..."

She trailed off, face going blank. I fought back a sigh and toyed with a lock of my hair before fumbling with my cigarettes out of nervousness and lighting one. Inhaling deeply, I willed myself to relax; I tried to convince myself that she just wanted advice about fashion or shopping because I always heard Draco terrorizing her about her strange taste in sweaters. They were unflattering, it was true, but it was oddly endearing. Obviously, the shirt she was wearing presently was one that made her incredibly uncomfortable and, therefore, must have been one that was chosen for her by Draco. I was certain that I was not wrong in assuming so. Remembering my manners and trying hard to forget the anger I felt at her during lunch, I shook my head slightly. It amazed me again and again how thick her hair looked, and it amazed me just as much how badly I found myself wanting to wind my fingers through it. She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot before crossing her arms over her chest and frowning.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she demanded.

My eyebrow seemed to raise of its own accord and I exhaled to clear my mouth so I could reply.

"Why am I doing what to you?" I asked, genuinely confused.

I had no idea what she was talking about, and I did not appreciate her aggressive tone or her suddenly defensive stance. If she was going to start a fight, it was a bad day to do it: I was simply not in the mood.

"I don't know," she almost whined, gesturing vaguely with her hands. "Whatever it is you're doing to make me feel like this."

I was piqued.

"And how is that?"

"Confused!" she shouted suddenly. "You make me confused, Fleur!"

She began to pace restlessly, like an animal in a cage. Her dark eyes were wild and wide and she kept glancing at me but avoiding my gaze. Her breathing was harsh.

"You make me confused, Fleur," she muttered, wringing her hands. "More confused than I have ever been about anything, and I don't think you understand the gravity of that admittance. I don't get confused about things, Fleur, least of all _women."_

__My frayed nerves and neurons suddenly came to life, blazing in hectic confusion, demanding answers of me that I simply did not have. Thumping erratically in my chest, my heart threatened to skip beats and I sucked down smoke in an attempt to suffocate it into stillness.

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

She threw up her arms and made a choking noise of despair, whirling around and beginning to pace anew with vigor.

"I'm not g-" she paused, seeming to rewrite her own monologue in her brain. "I date men, Fleur."

I wanted to laugh, but instead said calmly, "So do I."

Of _course_. I already knew where she was going with this. She was going to tell me that she loved gay people and wanted me to feel included. How many times have I heard this speech and from how many different people?

"Only men," she clarified awkwardly, eyes shifting and resting on everything in the room but my eyes. "And I have no problem with people who like both."

I groaned, "Hermione, if this is some sort of politically-correct disclaimer about how much you love gays, then I have no need to hear it. I assumed that you did, seeing as how two of your closest friends are gay and partners. I don't need to you reassure me that you have no problem with accepting me into your circle."

Stars were exploding in my brain and my exhaustion seemed to double. Outside, the sun was beginning to set and, irritated, I barely resisted the urge to just walk out on the conversation and resume my sunbathing and drinking. I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to still the bubbles of light popping behind my eyes and the throbbing ache that came with each pop.

"It's not any sort of disclaimer," she said tightly, voice rising in pitch in tiny increments. "You're up to something, and I know you are. So whatever you're doing, you need to stop. You're hiding something and you're playing dumb about it. I know that you're just doing this to spite me, to confuse me, to get back at me for being rude- I don't know; I don't appreciate it, whatever you're doing! I don't know what you want from me, but I don't like being played, Fleur!"

I chewed my tongue and spat, "Tu es _imposible_."

"Excuse me?" she demanded shrilly. "Don't you lapse into your mother tongue with me!"

I bristled, slamming the butt of my cigarette into an ashtray and muttering to myself as I got to my feet. Disbelief hit me like a sweep of a dragon's tail. _Offended_ was quite possibly the only word that I could muster to explain how I felt at that moment. Her ridiculous and baseless accusations about how I was manipulating her and-

"Did you even hear me?" she snapped.

I bit my lip furiously and tugged at a lock of my hair that had escaped from the loose bun it had been in, and turned to look at her.

"I will speak in whatever language I know and please!" I exclaimed, feeling my aching muscles begin to quiver as a residue of the Veela, so recently subdued, began to scratch at my skin. "This is _my_ home! _Merde!_ "

My head was throbbing and my skull felt too tight for whatever was throbbing inside of it. My hair felt too heavy and my skin felt too thin for this; I was so tired, too tired for this.

"If you're going to insult me, then at least do it so that I can understand! You don't have to do it in French to spare my feelings; I know that you hate me!" she shouted, at once being a bully yet playing the victim.

I glared at her and, surprisingly enough, she did not look away. It seemed that she had suddenly grown a spine. She refused to look away.

"Sometimes I wish I could!" I snapped, staring down at her and daring her to look away.

She did not.

"What-" she began.

I was through with listening to her speak, through with letting her assume that _she_ was getting the worst of the situation when she was not.

"What did I do to you, Hermione?" I demanded sharply. "What did I _ever_ do to you that you cannot even say a civil 'hello'  or a civil _anything_? What did I do that you can't seem to want me, no matter what I do, no matter how welcoming or how kind I am to you?"

She looked stunned and I am certain that I looked as stunned as she did the second the words came out of my mouth.  
 _  
_"Excuse me?" she asked blankly.

" _Imposible!_ " I cried, laughing bitterly and shrugging exaggeratedly.

Surely she wasn't so _stupid_ , was she? I am certainly not so suave that all of my stares and advances went completely unnoticed.

"Have you noticed at all that I have opened my home and my arms to you and you have shoved my welcome back in my face with no provocation or reason? When have I given you a reason to hate me like you do?"

The words were flying out of my mouth much faster than my brain could process, translate, and understand them and I regretted them the second they slipped between my teeth. Hermione's face only grew more slack and more blank and, frustrated, I laughed again and damned it all, throwing both caution and the remaining shreds of my dignity to the wind.

"Have you stopped to think that, maybe in this circumstance, you are less the victim than I am, given that you antagonize me for no reason? Will you refuse me forever?" I continued.

She said nothing.

Panic began to set in, and I wondered how appalled she must have been at my admittance. It began to occur to me that perhaps she _had_ noticed my advances and had come to talk to me, to clarify, to tell me that we could only be distant and mostly begrudging friends (on her part, at least) and nothing more. Seconds later, panic seized me completely and my heart began to race fit to burst through my ribcage and I lost control of the part of my brain that was telling me to just shut up.

"You have some sort of insane martyr complex where you are always feeling sorry for yourself, but you cannot be moved to give an ounce of pity to anyone else! You are complicated, too complicated," I rattled, noticing that her face, if at all possible, went _even more_ slack and _even more_ blank as if she had just left her own body and was watching me rant at her from outside of it. "You make things more difficult on yourself, on others, and on _me_ than they should be! You are selfish, patronizing, self-pitying, stubborn, and..."

Hermione's eyes cleared and she shook her head- the tiniest of motions.

"Shut up," she breathed, advancing toward me.

" _Excuse moi!_ " I began, taking a half-step backward then stopping.

I was unable to say anything else because, before I knew it, she had invaded my standing space and was staring up at me with those unspeakably deep eyes that, just seconds ago, were opaque with confusion but were now clear as if something had shaken her out of her stupor. Swallowing hard, I realized just how close she was to me. I had only time enough to count a small smattering of freckles across her nose (six, to be specific) before she leaned into me and stretched up, brushing her lips against mine. It was a brief moment, but I felt as if I had been electrocuted and as if that jolt made my heart stop. She had not moved; her lips were still pressed gently, if somewhat awkwardly, against mine.

A shiver raced its way down my spine and settled between my hips.

She smelled good, and I breathed her in greedily as I cupped her face in my hands and, after hesitating for a few seconds, hungrily kissed her back. I was unsure as to where my sudden surge of courage came from, but I was grateful for it nonetheless. I was overcome by what was happening, unable to believe that Hermione had kissed me and that now I was kissing her back and she was not resisting me in the slightest. I brushed my fingers over her face, eager to memorize her because I was sure that I was dreaming. I was desperate to let the warmth of her skin seep into mine. The throbbing in my head was gone, replaced by a ringing like a Tibetan singing bowl. My lungs were constricting and I knew that my breaths were escaping in sharp bursts through my nose and that I was all but growling as I relished the feeling of her lips beneath mine. I had never kissed anyone with such desperation before. I was desperate for her, for more of her, so desperate that I felt dizzy. The Veela inside purred.

Hermione's fingers rested lightly against my throat. She fit so well against me; she was the perfect height so that she only had to tip her head back slightly so that I could claim her mouth and so that she could easily wrap her arms around my neck. Indulging myself further, I tangled my fingers her hair, moaning deeply in my throat as I felt how soft and silky and incredibly thick it was- better than I had imagined. She curled against me as I stroked my hands down her sides to her waist before she gasped and twitched, peeling herself away, stumbling backwards as if I had burned her.

She looked frightened.

"Hermio-" I began, voice thick with desire and my mouth aching.

"I have to go," she squeaked, walking backward and hitting furniture as she went.

"Don't-" I begged, suddenly feeling cold without her body against mine.

I heard the click of the door as her back hit the wood, heard the twist of the handle, heard her gasp, heard the door slam, heard her take off down the street, but understood none of it. Stunned, I allowed my legs to bring me to the sofa and I sat down heavily, my heart sinking steadily but quickly. It had all happened as quickly as it ended, although the brief moments of heat seemed like they had been hours long. Her smell lingered like smoke, and I gulped air in a desperate attempt to gather the traces of it but found myself breathing in nothing and feeling hollowed, much like suffocating. Sighing, I leaned forward and took my head in my hands, rubbing my palms hard against my eyes. It felt like years had passed before I found the energy to stand and walk back my verandah and lie in my chair, this time wearing a top and feeling much worse than ever before.

My stomach was twisting in nervousness, and I could feel it but not quite; it was like I had been stung by a poisonous insect and it was painful, but numb. The world seemed muted, and echoes of Hermione's breaths played in loops instead of the din of the city. I was frustrated and confused, and cigarettes had never seemed more soothing and scotch had never tasted so good until then. I closed my eyes, trying hard to ignore the sudden tilt that the universe seemed to have adopted. I tried hard to drive any residual thoughts of Hermione from my head but, exhausted, gave up and trudged into my bedroom and threw myself face-down onto my duvet. I fell asleep eventually, when I heard the silence of the night fall away to the stirrings of early morning, the press of Hermione's lips still an awful, vivid pain against mine.

\----

 

I awoke with a thundering in my head that made me groan, reach for the nearest pillow, and pull it over my face. The sun was too bright, and I shut my eyes tight against the delicate linen of the pillowcase that somehow felt much too coarse. I grumbled a spell at the blinds and windows to shut them, sending my room into a much-welcomed darkness before groping blindly on my nightstand for my pack of cigarettes. When my fingers skimmed over the dreadfully bare wood, I cursed and sighed, flinging my arm over myself and rolling over to let my face sink into my pillow.

"Shit," I muttered, trying to pretend that I was not as disappointed as I felt that Hermione was nowhere in sight.

The bed swaddled me in its familiar embrace for what felt like ages, and I let myself burrow into its simultaneously comforting and misery-inducing recesses until a persistent pecking at my window roused me. Grumbling, I rose and reluctantly opened the blinds and window, feeling as if the midday sun had stricken me in the face. A disgruntled barn owl swooped in and hopped onto my bureau, preening itself while eyeing me snidely and holding out its leg. Reaching forward, I unrolled the small scroll from around its leg as it hooted quietly and settled onto both legs, still eyeing me with something much like disdain.

"Stop judging me, I know it's late," I snapped at it, opening the scroll. "I'm hungover."

"Fleur," the scroll read, "hopefully Humphrey made it to you alright; he's a bit of a tart and rarely ever does as he's told. Today is Harry's and my anniversary and we'd love it if you'd join us for dinner. Sorry we didn't warn you sooner! Slipped my mind. No need to bring anything but your beautiful self! Meet us at Fez at 7:30- hope you don't mind Moroccan! Best, Draco."

I looked wearily at the clock, which told me that it was 5:00 in the afternoon all while chiding me for being awake at such an indecent hour.

"Lazy," it tutted. "Your mother would-"

"Shut up," I snapped, peeling off my shirt and throwing it in the clock's face as it sputtered in protest.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," I wrote hurriedly and forcedly on a small scrap of parchment.

In all honesty, I would have missed it for half of a cigarette but I had no desire to be on Harry's bad side, let alone Draco's.

I handed it to Humphrey, who was no longer eyeing me but had taken to staring at his own reflection quite lovingly in the window. The bird was obviously Draco's. He took the scrap in his beak and hooted, wiggling his tail feathers before taking off. His great wings flapped strongly then stilled, and I watched as he soared effortlessly through the sky. I envied his freedom, running my fingers through my disheveled hair before walking to the shower in disbelief, stunned by my horrible luck.

The cold jets of water did nothing to assuage the vacuum-like feeling of dread in my stomach as the certainty of Hermione's presence struck me like a pugilist's fist.

"It's too soon," I said to no one.

How could I face her after last night? After my outburst, my loss of control, my weakness? How could I possibly look her in the eye after I kissed her so wantonly after she-

I shook my head.

After _she_ kissed _me_. I remembered with amazing clarity all of a sudden that I had been talking when Hermione cut me off and kissed me. _Kissed_ me, like a desperate woman, like a woman starved. I remembered the velveteen softness of her lips, the smell of her hair and the thickness of it in my hand and, suddenly, the knot of stress in my stomach loosened somewhat.

Hermione kissed me. _She_ kissed _me_.

\----

I walked calmly along the streets, in no real hurry seeing as how I had another half hour before the party and the restaurant was only fifteen minutes or so away from my flat. As much as I had despised the Minister's intrusion upon my life, I had to own that he had chosen an impressive location for the flat with which he had compensated me. I took a drag of my cigarette, desperate to wash the taste of my daily medicinal potion (the doses of which had doubled in strength since the last time I went home and my grandmother had witnessed the severity of my attacks) from my mouth. Rounding my lips, I exhaled a fat, lazy smoke ring and smiled wryly, remembering how my father used to watch me smoke in the kitchen.

"You certainly _are_ Apolline's daughter," he chuckled.

"My smoke rings are much better," my mother teased. "But I am certain that you will improve."

I had noticed the wariness that lined Hermione's eyes whenever I reached for a new cigarette when out at dinner or coffee with her, Draco, Harry, and Ron. She seemed disturbed by the habit, even disgusted and for a moment, I considered stopping. I remembered the softness of her lips and my nerves jumped and the moment passed. I took another drag and tugged at my black leather motorcycle jacket, a sheepskin jacket that I had let Gabrielle coerce me into buying one time when she and I snuck off to Florence a few years ago, shortly before my wedding. The leather was supple and soft, and I almost felt bad for buying it and I almost felt bad that it had outlasted my husband. _Almost_.

"You'll thank me one day," Gabrielle wheedled, eyeing my reflection as I turned this way and that in the little leather shop's mirror.

"Si, si," the shopkeeper agreed, "it looks amazing on you, mademoiselle."

"Hmm," I murmured.

"Come on, Fleur," Gabrielle almost whined. "Just get it. You know, girls love motorcycles. They're sexy. Pointless, but sexy. And having a motorcycle jacket lets you have the sexiness without the noisy, pedestrian, Muggle pointlessness of the actual machine. It makes you look like a bad boy. Women find that appealing."

I clicked my teeth, raising my eyebrow suspiciously at my sister, "Trying to help big sister get a girlfriend, then, chere? You think Bill's no good?"

She blushed furiously, "No."

"Then _you_ like the jacket."

"Well, yes. That's what I've been-"

I laughed, shaking my head and saying, "Gabrielle, if I buy this, I am not letting you borrow it."

Gabrielle's pout deepened and her eyes widened in just the way that they always did when she was trying to weasel her way into getting what she wanted.

"Just once a month, Fleur!"

"Ah, no, mon amour," I tutted, wrapping my arm gently around my sister's shoulder and tousling her hair.

She sighed in despair.

"And," I said as she trudged away, "it's really more of a bomber jacket than a motorcycle jacket."

"I'll take it," I announced to the shopkeep, then stepped close to him and whispered conspiratorially, "and I'll take the same in the chocolate brown. The smaller one."

The shopkeep smiled discreetly and nodded, fetching the coat and heading to the register to ring up my purchases. I watched as Gabrielle sulked off into the corner, staring woefully out of the window at the cobbled Italian streets, no doubt ruing the fact that I had refused to let her borrow my new jacket. I went to pay, waving off the shopkeep when he tried to put the smaller jacket in a box. Taking the jacket in my hands, I stood behind Gabrielle and reached forward, draping it over her shoulders with a quiet laugh.

"I'm the brooding sister," I joked, pinching her cheek. "I get the black jacket. You get this one. It suits you more."

She squealed and put it on, launching herself at me and hugging me tight.

"You're the best!" she gasped in disbelief.

"I try," I smiled.

I continued to stroke the leather, remembering how Hermione once spent almost an entire minute watching me take it off. I remembered how badly I wanted to crawl out of my own skin with frustration at the sight of those rosewood eyes sinking into me like talons, then unsure of whether it was contempt or lust that made her gaze feel so heavy on me. Now I was certain that I knew what it was: a strange mixture of both.

I ambled up to the restaurant, taking time to gather my hair and sweep it up into some semblance of a bun before stepping inside.

"Reservation for Malfoy and Potter," I said to the host, who had been gaping at me rather impolitely.

"Th-this way," he stammered, leading me with an awkward, jolted sweep of the arm toward an open air balcony.

"Fleur!" Draco cried, beaming and sweeping over to me and wrapping me in a tight embrace and kissing both of my cheeks. "Thank you so much for coming!"

"Of course," I breathed, patting his cheek. "Thank you for having me."

I walked over to Harry's seat, bending over the back of it and kissing him on the cheek.

"Harry, congratulations," I said, ruffling his hair affectionately.

Harry grinned his crooked grin and blushed, "Thanks, Fleur. I'm glad you're here."

"Good evening, Ron," I said, grasping Ron's broad shoulders and kissing his cheeks soundly.

"G-g-goo...buh," he stuttered.

"Articulate, as always," I teased.

"Fleur, you remember Pansy Parkinson?" Draco interjected, saving Ron from further embarrassment

He gestured to a pretty but haughty-looking brunette beside him. Her nose was upturned and her hair was sleekly manicured to such an extent that it looked almost wig-like, bangs falling across her forehead and the ends of her hair just curling to graze her jawline. The bright, venomous crimson of her nails matched her lipstick.

"Only vaguely, I'm afraid," I apologized. "Good evening, mademoiselle."

"Charmed," she purred, staring at me through her lashes.

I raised my eyebrows but said nothing, choosing to take the empty seat beside her at the table. Pansy leaned in close to me when we spoke, eyeing me with a half-lidded and unsubtle gaze all the while. In the next few minutes, several other guests arrived (Parvati and Padma Patil, Lavender Brown, as well as a few others who I knew had gone to Hogwarts with Harry and Draco but whose names I could not remember because of Pansy's persistent press of attention and affection. Landry and Fry from work also came in, along with a few others I knew only in passing). Hermione was nowhere to be seen. I began to brood immediately, dreading that she would not come. I ignored Pansy's tactless hand on my knee, the heavy smell of her perfume, the simpering tone of her voice and instead focused on how stupid I felt for expecting Hermione to come, especially after the fiasco of a conversation that we had last night.

"Draco, Harry," I heard a breathless voice say.

I turned my head as if on a string, stunned. Hermione rushed toward Draco, apologizing profusely with each step, obviously frazzled. She looked beautiful, with her hair done and wearing a dress that I was certain she had not picked out for herself. The heels she wore elongated her already long legs, drawing my gaze easily.

"You're lucky I'm in a lovey mood, otherwise I'd make you pay the cheque for being late," Draco teased as he kissed and hugged her.

She hugged Harry and briefly swatted Ron across the shoulder in what might have been a gesture of affection.

"You can take the seat across from Fleur," Draco said loudly, eyeing Pansy with an odd mixture of amusement and annoyance until she rolled her eyes and retreated back into her own chair and off of the edge of mine that she had begun to invade when I was ignoring her.

"Parkinson," Hermione said stiffly with a look on her face that was clearly her damnedest attempt at not glaring at the darker brunette.

"Granger," Pansy said haughtily, nose in the air.

"Fleur," Hermione greeted uncomfortably, avoiding my eyes as she sat in the empty seat opposite mine.

"Bon soir," I replied, taking the opportunity to pull off my jacket, watching Hermione's face intently.

Her eyes still refused to meet mine, but I watched her watch me pull the jacket off, watched her eyes trace the line of my arm and my shoulder.

"That dress is lovely on you," Pansy almost growled, leaning in to whisper hotly, "I'm sure it'd be lovely on my floor, as well."

I raised an eyebrow at her and she smirked, raising her wine glass to me in a sort of toast before turning to Draco and beginning to chat.

Hermione began to mutter, and most of it was unintelligible except for what sounded a lot like "slut" and "troll." I hid my smile in my wine glass. I leaned forward on my elbows, surveying Hermione until she squirmed in her chair.

"She's right," she mumbled. "That _is_ a nice dress."

"I'm sure it'd be lovely on _your_ floor," I replied calmly, watching as she flushed from her nose to her shoulders, lightly dusted with a smattering of freckles. "Your dress is lovely."

"I wouldn't have bought it if Draco hadn't threatened to transfigure himself into a woman just so he could wear it."

Hermione was wearing a slinky black thing in which she looked beautiful, if slightly uncomfortable. Only the outer edges of her collarbones were visible, segueing gently into the delicate slope of her shoulders. The almost sheer fabric of the front of the dress met at the base of her neck. Her hair was pulled away from her face in a bun and her eyes were lined with smoky eyeshadow, making them even deeper and darker than usual. She finally met my gaze and I fought off a shiver.

"We need to talk," I said quietly.

"No," she said nervously, taking healthy swigs of her wine. "Not really."

"Desperately, actually," I corrected.

Hermione hid her face in her menu and squirmed in her chair some more, nearly leaping out of her seat as her leg brushed mine underneath the suddenly too-small table. The silkiness of her leg nearly made me groan aloud and I picked up my menu as well to hide the blush on my face.

"I don't see the need," Hermione squeaked. "There's nothing to talk about."

The waiter swept by and I placed my order, listening as Hermione fumbled over ordering sea bass.

"There is quite a bit to talk about," I said conversationally. "Last night, for example."

"What about last night?" she sweated, avoiding my eyes again.

I sighed and I heard a loud scoff of the utmost exasperation beside me.

"For god's sake, Granger," Pansy laughed, "if you won't have her, at least let me know so I can start buying her drinks."

"Wha...how....what are you talking about, Parkinson?" Hermione demanded sharply, looking harassed and offended.

"Please, darling, don't flatter yourself. You're not nearly as discreet as you think. Anyone with eyes with which to see can tell that you've got it bad for Fleur and, honestly, anybody with any taste at all couldn't blame you."

"I have _not '_ got it bad for Fleur'," Hermione huffed. "She's a woman."

"Granger, you're the most blatant homosexual I've known since Draco. You're not fooling anyone, especially with those hideous jumpers you seem to love so much."

"Pansy," Draco hissed, "be nice. It is true, though, Hermione. You're really not fooling anyone. And those jumpers really are quite hideous."

"Snakes," Hermione grumbled, flushing. "The both of you. And why does everyone have it out for my jumpers? They're comfortable!"

"Leeesbian," Pansy sang low under her breath, sneering at the flustered brunette.

I saw her cringe a little and suddenly felt a pang for her, an overwhelming need to be closer to her than I was. Much, much closer. I wanted to be next to her, to breathe her air and feel her skin and have her to myself.

"Come with me," I said gently, rising and moving to stand beside Hermione's chair. "Or you can stay and endure Pansy's teasing."

I offered her my hand and she eyed it as if it might have been on fire, hesitating before taking it timidly and standing. I clasped her hand in mine, amazed at the callouses I felt as I tugged her away from the table and toward a secluded corner by the railing, overlooking the city.

"What are these from?" I asked, turning her hand over it and tracing the callous along the top joint of her right middle finger.

"Writing," she stammered, looking terrified. "I take a lot of notes when I read."

"What do you think of Marcel Duchamp?" I asked suddenly.

She raised her eyebrows and said, "Oh, well, I think that he was important, but being important doesn't necessarily entail being talented. I thought he was a bit of a smartass with his work. Truly, he was a revolutionary, but I still think that his sculptures were tripe, for the most part. Bit of a pretentious tart, in my opinion. Brilliant, but also...untalented, I suppose. His work just isn't formally pleasing to me- it's aesthetically bland. Boring. Perhaps that's a bit harsh, but I just think that it's a bit ridiculous for everyone to get so worked up about an inverted urinal. Of course, I'm speaking strictly on my own opinion and, seeing as how I'm more of an academic than an artist, I guess my opinion really is quite different from someone else who makes art. And it's not as if I don't understand the concept, because I certainly do and I think that the concept was and remains brilliant. I just wish that he'd found another way to communicate it than inverting urinals and gluing bike wheels to stools and- why are you looking at me like that?"

Some time during her dissertation about Duchamp, my heart had caught in my throat and begun to beat its fragile wings like a feverish Snitch.

"Like what?" I said, dazed.

"Like you want to kiss me," she said gingerly, carefully meeting my eyes.

I stepped closer.

"I do want to."

She took a step back, pressing against the railing and looking as if she might have been considering jumping.

"Why?"

"Because you are beautiful, and I absolutely agree with what you were saying about Duchamp and I want to have more conversations like this, where there is no angry shouting. And I want to kiss you."

Hermione swallowed visibly, peeking over my shoulder at the table to see if anyone was looking. Her entire body was tense, shoulders drawn in as if to brace herself from a horrible impact.

"Fleur, I can't. Not here, not now. Or ever. I'm not-"

I sighed, frustrated, advancing on her now that she had nowhere else to go. I reached forward, tracing her cheek with my fingertips and watching her lean unconsciously into the touch after initially jerking backwards.

"This is not about what you are or what you choose to call yourself, Hermione. It is about what you feel and letting yourself feel it. What do you feel?"

"Warm," she said quietly, pressing her cheek into my hand.

"May I kiss you?" I asked, brushing her chin with my thumb.

She looked at me, russet eyes meeting mine and lingering for what felt like years.

"Please," she said quietly, finally.

My heart skipped a beat or two and I leaned forward, my eyes fluttering shut just as our lips touched. My hands cupped Hermione's face and her hands dropped to my waist; her body felt taut as a plucked violin string but her lips were yielding and so, so, _so_ soft. Her fingers traced the contour of my hips as she kissed me back, chaste but eager, fingers burning into my skin. The kiss continued, a slow and timid exploration of each other's lips until her hands shifted and I felt her fingertips skim the slope of my backside and felt a small breath catch in her throat. One of my hands slid to the back of her neck as I deepened the kiss suddenly, encouraged by the moan it elicited from Hermione. She nipped at my bottom lip as I pulled away, resting my forehead against hers.

"God!" Draco cried over to us. "It's about _bloody time!"_  


 


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione reconsiders.

**CHAPTER 6**

HERMIONE

 

 

 

"Bollocks," I hissed, clomping toward the restaurant and past the host as quickly as I could.

 

"Excuse me-" he began.

 

"I'm with Malfoy and Potter," I called over my shoulder breathlessly, hoping I didn't fall and break an ankle. 

 

_I don't understand how women can walk in these. I feel like a show horse. This is absurd._

 

I swear, I'd think Draco was out to kill me with fashion if I didn't know he actually had my interests at heart. Still, I was amazingly uncomfortable in the outfit that he had picked out for me; everything from the shoe to the dress to the hair was all his doing. Fortunately, I had managed to convince him to leave the make-up application to me and used a smoky look (it took several attempts to get it right) rather than the overly ambitious and flamboyant gold that Draco had chosen. I had also somehow managed to convince my hair (with overmuch coaxing, brushing, and Sleekeazy's) to relax from its usual curl and loosen into a gentle wave, which I then twisted into some semblance of a bun away from my face. 

 

"You'll need to impress Fleur," Draco said casually. "You have to make her come to you, especially after how you threw yourself on her like a dog on a steak. Chum the waters, so to speak."

 

Embarrassed at recalling the memory, I groaned and tried desperately to push my bangs out of my eyes. I failed and gave up, steeling myself and heading toward the gathering of people I recognized, listening for the tones of Draco's voice.

 

"Draco, Harry," I panted, finally coming to a halt just as my ankles began to creak in protest. 

 

I saw Fleur turn to stare at me out of the corner of my eye and shrank away, hugging Draco and clinging to him as an excuse to delay facing her. I simply wasn't ready, not after how I practically sexually assaulted her last night like a brute. 

 

"I can't do this," I hissed in his ear. "If I didn't care about you and Harry so much, I wouldn't have come at all. I'm not ready for this, Draco. I can't face her! It's too soon!"

 

Draco laughed, squeezing me tightly and shaking me a bit.

 

"You have no choice," he said blandly in my ear. "You're already here. You might as well stay."

 

I groaned, butting my forehead against his shoulder as he kissed me on the cheek and said loudly, "You're lucky I'm in a lovey mood, otherwise I'd make you pay the cheque for being late."

 

I then turned and hugged Harry who hugged me back, just as he did last night when I sent him a frantic Floo call asking if I could come over before barging into his flat, flinging my arms around him and sobbing just as he managed to pull his robe about himself. He pulled me inside, tugging me onto the couch and letting me wail hysterically into his shoulder as he reassured me that the world was not ending just because I kissed Fleur and then ran away.

 

"You'll be alright, Hermione," he said soothingly for what must have been the twelve-hundredth time since last night. "Deep breath. You've faced much, much worse, remember?"

 

I hid my head under his gritty chin, listening to his heartbeat thundering in his chest and gripping his calloused hands tightly in my own. He was right. Of course he was right. I had certainly faced worse things before, from death eaters to monsters to impossible riddles, upon whose answer the lives of my friends once hinged. I remembered flashes of light and Bellatrix's cruel, high-pitched peals of insane laughter; remembered the horrible, searing pain of the Cruciatus Curse again and again. Still, my heart thudded unpleasantly every time I thought about Fleur.

 

"I'll never understand why I dated Ron instead of you," I choked, trying to hide it with a laugh.

 

"It's 'cause I'm so handsome," Ron said loudly from over Harry's shoulder from where he was seated, grinning cheekily.

 

I rolled my eyes, both in exasperation and in an attempt to push back the tears that had welled up once again. I slapped Ron across the shoulder.

 

"Ronald," I said, half in rebuke and half in greeting.

 

"You're mean," he complained, rubbing his shoulder and pouting.

 

"Please, like you even felt that, you giant prat," I scoffed.

 

"You can take the seat across from Fleur," Draco announced, turning to me and flicking his eyes with an odd urgency to where Fleur was sitting.

 

I looked over, feeling my stomach contract and turn cold as I saw Pansy Parkinson smirking back at me, practically in Fleur's lap, looking as much an overprivileged and unjustifiably arrogant venomous a toad as ever.

 

"Parkinson," I said stiffly, fighting the urge to pull out my wand and hex her blind.

 

"Granger," she replied silkily, turning up her stupid pug nose as she sneered and slowly slithered back into her own chair.

 

I felt anger washing over me in undulating waves, hot and viscous and suffocating, making my skin prickle and itch. I exhausted my restraint to the dregs just to prevent myself from lurching forward to the table to throw forks at her, which seemed at once like the stupidest, most irrational thing to ever do and the best idea I'd ever had. I forced myself to sit across from Fleur, glaring at Pansy and daring her to meet my eyes. 

 

"Fleur," I mumbled.

 

"Bon soir," she said off-handedly, reaching for the collar of her jacket to pull it off.

 

I watched, willing myself to stare at everything but her (beautiful) eyes which, unfortunately, turned out to be quite the mistake. Somehow, I became mesmerized by the motion of the supple black leather sliding off of her fair and equally supple skin. I stared, almost hypnotized, wondering if Fleur really had been tugging the jacket off as slowly as I thought. 

 

My trance was only broken by Pansy saying, "That dress is lovely on you. I'm sure it'd be lovely on my floor as well."

 

I nearly expected a forked tongue to flit out from between her overly-lipsticked lips, and was actually quite disappointed when it didn't. She smiled at Fleur and I decided that I was past discriminating against the silver: I'd throw all of it at her, reserving the steak knife for her face. I also wasn't past hoping that the silver would burn her skin, which I was almost certain it would do.  

 

"Slut," I muttered to myself. "Unbelievable, remarkable slut. Got the bollocks of a bleeding _troll_ , she has. Hasn't changed a bit. I don't know why Draco insists on keeping this whore around. Slut."

 

I wanted to shout the word "slut" in her face, the expletive closely followed by dessert spoons and salad forks and hexes and curses. Over the years, I noticed a trend: any time I was around Pansy, my mind went blank. My years of schooling and self-education and obsessive reading flew out of the window faster and with more gusto than any hippogriff, and all of my vocabulary was reduced to one word: slut. It was all I could think around her.

 

I looked up from glowering at the edge of the table and immediately met Fleur's eyes, which led to a feeling of panic that was twice as immediate. I looked away quickly but felt her steady gaze on me, refusing to waver until I got uncomfortable and met her gaze again. My skin felt hot again, but this time in a way that was almost pleasant. 

 

"She's right," I admitted. "That _is_ a nice dress on you, Fleur."

 

And it was. For all that I knew about everything else, I knew nothing about fashion. I didn't know the words to describe the cut of her dress, and I couldn't even begin to guess who made it. Knowing Fleur, all I could guess was that it was expensive and that she had chosen it because it fit her as perfectly as her own skin. It clung and hung loose in the perfect places, revealing just enough skin to make my mouth go dry and my already erratic heartbeat to become even more abnormal, but hiding just enough to let my already far-gone mind wander further than it should. 

 

"I'm sure it'd be lovely on your floor," she smiled, shrugging a little and staring at me through the impossibly long fringe of her eyelashes. 

 

_Or on the back of one of my chairs._

 

Blood rushed to my face, and I fought the urge to become a puddle the second that thought crossed my mind.

 

"Your dress is lovely," she added lightly, as if in an attempt to diffuse the situation.

 

It didn't work.

 

I forced out, "I wouldn't have bought it if Draco hadn't threatened to transfigure himself into a woman just so he could wear it."

 

She smiled, genuinely amused, and I gazed longingly at the creamy slope of her exposed shoulder, at the slivers of skin I could see. 

 

"We need to talk," Fleur said.

 

I laughed nervously and gripped my wine glass in my hand, gulping down its contents in an attempt to steel myself for the conversation I was going to try to avoid, despite its obvious inevitability.

 

"No. Not really," I croaked after a particularly large swallow of wine burned down my throat.

 

"Desperately, actually," Fleur disagreed, frowning at me and staring me in the eye until I took refuge behind a menu.

 

"I don't see the need," I mumbled. "There's nothing to talk about."

 

I'd been to this restaurant before. Actually, I'd been here several times before because Draco loved this place. Normally, I would have already decided what I wanted. Tonight, my mind went blank as I stared at the heavy pages of the menu until the waiter swept by and asked for my order. I had no idea what I asked for, but I had half a mind to ask if I could keep the menu just to shield my face from Fleur's intimidating, blue stare. Blue. So, _so_ blue. 

 

"There is quite a bit to talk about. Last night, for example," Fleur said amicably. 

 

I wanted to die. My eyes watered from shame immediately and I laughed almost maniacally.

 

"What about last night?"

 

The moment was ruined by Pansy snorting like an overheated bulldog. 

 

"For god's sake, Granger," she tutted, "if you won't have her, at least let me know so I can start buying her drinks."

 

I reached for my soup spoon, gripping it tightly and wishing I only had hot soup to fling at her face along with the utensil. She smirked, that infuriating lip curl that made her look both smug and like she smelled something disgusting. 

 

"What are you talking about, Parkinson?" I demanded, stammering. 

 

"Please, darling, don't flatter yourself," she groaned, rolling her eyes and curling her lip to such an extent that I wanted to snatch it off her face. "You're not nearly as discreet as you think. Anyone with eyes with which to see can tell that you've got it bad for Fleur and, honestly, anybody with any taste at all couldn't blame you."

 

I bristled, feeling heat rising in my body like air in a balloon. How dare she even open her mouth and say anything at all to me.

 

"I have _not_ got it bad for Fleur," I snapped. "She's a woman!"

 

"Granger," she drawled, "you're the most blatant homosexual I've known since Draco. You're not fooling anyone, especially with those hideous jumpers you seem to love so much."

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Draco jerk with laughter and then, in a panic, clear his throat and try to look stern.

 

"Pansy," he said, trying lamely to sound disapproving, "be nice."

 

I glared at him, watching in annoyance as his lips twitched as he fought off a grin. 

 

"It is true, though, Hermione," he said semi-apologetically. "You're really not fooling anyone. And those jumpers really are quite hideous."

 

"Snakes," I mumbled, "the both of you. And why does everyone have it out for my jumpers? They're comfortable."

 

"Lesbian," Pansy teased, leering at me as I took more swallows of my wine, flushing both from fury and drink.

 

The word shook me. It made me nervous to even think of being with Fleur, and whether it was a good kind of nervousness or a bad kind was still unclear to me. I remembered the press of her lips against mine, how soft they were, how unlike Ron's they were. Her face was soft and smooth, where Ron's had been broad and gritty with stubble. Fleur's hair was surprisingly thick and silky and soft, where Ron's hair (all fifty thousand square acres of it that covered his body as a whole) had been coarse and wild. _Soft_. Everything about her was _soft_ , even the way she smelled. Despite having a female body myself, Fleur's body felt entirely alien to me. My hands were used to roaming flat planes of muscle and straight lines of bone, not the gentle slopes and valleys that her curves created. I swallowed hard, twitching out of my introspection when I heard a quiet sigh of exasperation and saw a hand hovering on the edge of my periphery. 

 

"Come with me," Fleur offered, holding out her hand. "Or you can stay and endure Pansy's teasing."

 

I looked first at Fleur's hand, at the slender fingers that I knew were much stronger than they looked; at her short, blunt, clean, manicured nails; at the hills that her knuckles made beneath her skin. Taking her hand meant more than the physical act of taking her hand in mine, and it meant more than following her and leaving Pansy's annoying snark behind. It meant admitting to her and to myself that I wanted to talk about last night, that something of some import did happen. I considered deflecting the offer, but I felt her fingers graze my skin before she took my hand in hers and gently led me away. I saw Pansy's face fall from a smirk into a scowl, her freshly waxed eyebrows knitting into a frown. She glared at me, at my hand in Fleur's and, suddenly, feeling Fleur's fingers clasp mine became considerably less terrifying and infinitely more satisfying than brutalizing Pansy in the face with spoons. 

 

_Pansy. The twat. The insufferable slut._

 

She tugged me away toward a quiet area where we could see the lights of the city. Even away from the crowd, I realized that she had not released my hand. Her thumb grazed my knuckles while, underneath, the tip of her middle finger touched the underside of my hand and fingers. Part of me wanted to jerk my hand away and leap over the railing to flee, but it looked to be at least a twenty foot drop and the rest of me wanted to stay. 

 

_I could use a levitating charm to escape. Or Apparate. Yes! That's it, I can Apparate away!_

 

I thought about pulling my hands out of hers to grope for my wand until the reality of the softness of her skin hit me, as well as the reality that my wand was in my purse, which was still in my chair- far, far away from me.

 

_So much for that. Well played, Granger. Really. Brilliant._

 

I kicked myself mentally with all the savagery of a battering ram. 

 

"What are these from?" she asked quietly as she touched a sizable callous on my middle finger. 

 

"Writing," I explained, heart jumping in my throat and ceasing all of my violent mental attacks upon myself. "I take a lot of notes when I read."

 

Fleur made a pensive humming noise in her throat before asking out of nowhere, "What do you think of Marcel Duchamp?" 

 

_She's gone off her crumpet. Duchamp? She wants to talk about Duchamp?_

 

Shocked, I raised my eyebrows and stared at her. She was completely serious. Did she honestly expect me to give her an answer when she must have known that my heart was going a million miles a beat? My brain was tangled and spinning in circles, and before I could stop myself, an answer wrestled its way out of my mind and mouth. It was like word-vomit: it just came out without my wanting it to, and I had no recollection of what I said. It seemed to be a trend with me tonight, forgetting things I said or wanted to say. Between Pansy reducing my usually expansive vocabulary to profanities and Fleur's presence wiping my mind clean, I was obviously in no place to be having any sort of remarkable conversation tonight. I felt my mouth moving but couldn't seem to hear or understand what I was saying. 

 

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I demanded.

 

"Like what?" she murmured, locking me into her gaze like a vice.

 

"Like you want to kiss me," I said, suddenly emboldened by the swirls of colour in her eyes.

 

"I do want to."

 

_Merlin's balls, she just said she wants to kiss me._

 

My heart constricted and I felt a jolt of adrenaline course through my body like a rain-swollen river. She stepped forward and I stepped back, feeling the railing pressed against me and feeling my own panic pressed against me like a wall to reinforce the railing. Twenty foot was a long way, but I could survive it. But it was a long way down, especially in heels and a dress and no wand. 

 

"Why?" I asked. 

 

Fleur tilted her head as if I had just asked her an amazingly obtuse question with an amazingly obvious answer. 

 

"Because you are beautiful, and I absolutely agree with what you were saying about Duchamp and I want to have more conversations like this, where there is no angry shouting. And I want to kiss you."

 

_What did I even say about Duchamp? Bloody Duchamp. I don't even like Duchamp._

 

She advanced again, and I briefly met Draco's gaze over her shoulder, even at a distance. He nodded, a miniscule motion, and it was all I could do to stop myself bolting away from Fleur. 

 

"Fleur, I can't," I stuttered. "Not here, not now. Or Ever. I'm not-"

 

She advanced on me, moving with the smoothness of a predator, eyeing me in the way that wolves eyed and stalked their prey before seizing them in their jaws. Her hand moved and I flinched, closing my eyes reflexively until I felt her surprisingly tender touch on my cheek. It was hardly the mouthful of wolf-teeth closing around my throat that I had expected. Still, I was afraid. I wasn't afraid of Fleur, because I knew that she wouldn't hurt me. I was afraid of what I felt stirring in my belly and its implications. I liked women. I admitted it to myself only when I thought I wasn't listening to myself, but it was true. I liked women and, specifically, Fleur. But I couldn't. I wasn't supposed to. Every time I denied myself, I felt like I was squelching an instinct, a drive, and it almost felt more unnatural than the drive itself. I just wasn't ready, but that didn't make me want it any less. 

 

 _"Think of it like food,"_ Draco had said. _"If it looks good, eat it."_

 

Fleur, then, must have been some delicious-looking thing that I was afraid of because I wasn't sure of the taste. Maybe I'd hate it, maybe I'd love it. Maybe I'd find it strange and need to get used to it, but then I would grow to like it. Maybe she was an acquired taste. Like caviar.

 

_Maybe I'm suddenly becoming a cannibal. Somehow, that seems much worse than becoming a lesbian._

 

"This is not about what you are or what you choose to call yourself, Hermione. It is about what you feel and letting yourself feel it. What do you feel?" she breathed, face awfully close to mine. 

 

Again, my brain blanked. 

 

_Not a cannibal._

 

"Warm," I said dumbly, beginning to enjoy the softness of her skin against mine.

 

_Magic._

 

Somehow, I didn't want to resist her. I didn't care if it was her magic, charm, thrall or what. I didn't care. It wasn't a ball of magic standing in front of me, touching my face with a gentleness I'd rarely known. It was Fleur. 

 

"May I kiss you?" she asked.

 

It wasn't quite a question, but mostly because we both already knew the answer.

 

"Please," I replied.

 

Every word I had ever known, every theory I had ever formed, every riddle I had ever untangled suddenly amounted to nothing that could help me describe what I was feeling. It was like I'd been Stupefied from ten different directions and that I was spinning, dazed, wandfire ricocheting off of my body and making my hair stand on end. Fleur's lips were soft, and the kiss was exploratory and gentle. It was pleasant and electrifying at once, as timid as it was heart-stoppingly terrifying. I kissed her back, trying hard not to tremble and letting my hands fall to her hips to hold them for support. Her hand traversed the length of my neck, resting at the nape just as my fidgeting hands skimmed the curve of her lower back and her surprisingly muscular arse. I twitched nervously, supernovae bursting into being in my skull to deafen me and make my ears ring, and my teeth grazed her lip as she pulled away. I  looked up at her nervously and she leaned in again, this time cradling my face in her hands and pressing her forehead against mine. 

 

"God, it's about bloody time! _"_ I heard Draco laugh. 

 

"Oh, get a room," Pansy barked derisively. "Merlin's pants. I'm trying to eat here."

 

"Bugger off, Parkinson," I snapped, whirling around reflexively to stand between her and Fleur.

 

Behind me, I heard Fleur laugh quietly in amusement. 

 

"So much for your 'I haven't got it bad for Fleur because she's got tits and that's not my thing' rubbish. Would you care to retract that statement?" Pansy said dryly, stabbing energetically at a crouton in her salad as if it had done her a great personal wrong.

 

"You're just jealous," I hissed at her.

 

Pansy's eyes narrowed and she crunched through her crouton with what might have also been enough force to bite through the table.

 

"You wish."

 

I flushed intensely, both with annoyance and self-satisfaction.

 

"Oh, well good. I was wondering when the two of them would get to snogging. It's been a long time coming, I think, hasn't it, Hermione?" a dream-like voice asked.

 

I jerked my gaze upward to see Luna and Neville heading toward the table, Neville looking happy and besotted while holding Luna's hand, who smiled calmly and looked as though she and her brain were wafting between worlds. I felt a surge of affection at seeing them, which was only dampened by the embarrassment that flooded me at her question.

 

"Luna!" I blustered. “Christ, did everyone but me know?”

 

Luna smiled blithely, waving at me in exactly the same dreamy way she had waved at me at the dinner a few of us had shared a few weeks ago. She'd only seen me glaring at and pointedly ignoring Fleur that night, so it was a wonder to me how she could possibly have seen it coming. I would have suspected divination, had I not thought the subject utter rubbish. 

 

"It is impossible to dislike her," Fleur chuckled. 

 

I shivered at the feeling of her lips breathing against my ear, and I wanted nothing more than to grab her and Apparate to a bed. I struggled for control as she smiled knowingly at me, tugging at a few stray locks of my hair and wiping at my bottom lip with her thumb before offering me her hand to lead her back to the table. I quickly greeted Luna and Neville with a hug and a kiss before taking my seat across from Fleur, who also greeted them and then sat, smiling faintly. 

 

"Good evening," Luna said serenely as Neville pulled out her chair for her and she sat. "Oh, thank you, Neville. That's very polite of you."

 

Neville blushed as he looked up at me, then at Fleur. I wanted to die.

 

_Great. There goes my reputation. Snogging in the corner like a horny teenager._

 

"Sorry we're so late, Harry," Luna murmured. "Neville and I got lost on the way here. We saw a lovely apothecary a few blocks back and Neville just couldn't resist and we had to stop and go look. It really was lovely, though. They had this bush that I know for a fact attracts Wrackspurts, so I just had to see if I could find any nests."

 

"Oh," Harry said, grinning sheepishly. "Erm, well, it's quite all right. I'm just glad you both made it. Thanks so much for coming, it means a lot to us."

 

"It's no problem at all, mate!" Neville exclaimed, smiling his kind and genuine smile. "It's the least we could do, especially after everything you've done for us and everything we've all been through together."

 

Harry nodded and Draco smiled, although a ghost of a grimace crossed his face. He didn't like to think of the war and, from the looks of it, Fleur didn't either. Her expression darkened momentarily and she caught my eye before looking away. 

 

"You look very handsome, Draco. I like you much more now you're not trying to kill everyone," Luna intoned cheerfully. 

 

Draco spluttered into his wine, resurfacing to cough and choke. Harry dabbed at the spots of wine on Draco's face, looking at once panicked and apologetic. 

 

"Thanks," he croaked at last. "I think."

 

"Oh, you're welcome!" Luna cried. "And such good manners, too. Although I liked Ginny, too. Where is she, anyway? You have good taste in partners, Harry."

 

To the side of her, Ron was staring at me strangely as if he'd never seen me before, a muscle in his jaw twitching. I returned his stare, confused as to what was wrong with him now. After concluding that it must have been indigestion, (he had, after all, just inhaled three dinner rolls in about thirty seconds flat) I turned away from him.

 

"She couldn't come tonight," Harry explained awkwardly in the uncomfortable way that he did (I knew he must have been shuffling his feet under the table). "She's playing a Quidditch match."

 

_Or she still has trouble pretending to be happy for you and Draco, especially on holidays and during special events._

 

"Always been fond of Luna," I heard Ron say, pointedly avoiding my gaze. "She's crazy, but it's in a good way."

 

"Absolutely," Neville agreed earnestly. "I love that about her."

 

 _Love_.

 

The word made my insides squirm, but they came to a rolling boil when I looked up from my salad and saw Draco leering at me from across the table. He opened his mouth to speak.

 

"Don't even start with me, Malfoy," I mumbled.

 

He squealed with laughter, "You know, for the 'brightest witch of our age', you really are frighteningly inarticulate."

 

I speared a grape tomato from my salad with a fork. 

 

"I hope you haven't forgotten that I've punched you in the face before," I warned.

 

He raised an eyebrow coquettishly at me and said, "Was that a threat, Granger? Fleur, I think your woman is threatening me. You really ought to keep a tighter hold on this one."

 

I groaned as Fleur smiled, and I was momentarily stunned as I realized I couldn't say whether I'd ever seen her really smile before. This was a real smile, one that reached her eyes; it wasn't her usual smile, which consisted of a slightly bemused look and a barely upturned corner of the lip. She even laughed a little. 

 

"It would be such a shame to break such a proud spirit," she said aloofly, raising an eyebrow at me. 

 

"Oh?" Draco leaned in, resting his chin in his palm. "So you like them feisty then?"

 

Fleur smiled again, shrugging slightly and taking a bite of her salad. I saw her shift to cross her legs and nearly leapt out of my seat when I felt a foot brush mine under the table. I shot her a frantic look and she looked back, the picture of calm. 

 

"You could say that, yes," she murmured, keeping eye contact.

 

"Well, then, I daresay you two were a match made in heaven," Draco snorted.

 

A strange look crossed Fleur's face, similar to the one that darkened her features like a heavy cloud across the sun when the war was mentioned, however briefly. Her expression this time, however, was less bitter and more sad. Draco stared pointedly at me, jarring my thoughts away from considering Fleur's expressions, batting his eyelashes and doing his best to irritate me. I was going to retort, until I felt the same foot from before slide up my calf, the side of the shoe grazing my skin. I stared intently at a tomato, desperately trying not to look too hard at Fleur, whose face had suddenly gone from pensive to calm and innocent. 

 

"Oh, look, Wrackspurts!" Luna mused, sounding mildly interested. "Hermione, you've got an entire swarm of them around your head."

 

Pansy muttered darkly in her seat, looking mutinous. 

 

\-----

 

Draco laughed raucously as Harry gagged down yet another shot of firewhisky, grimacing.

 

"You take shots like a little girl, Potty," he sneered, ruffling Harry's hair in an oddly menacing but affectionate way.

 

"Let's see you do it, then," Harry gulped, still wincing from the burn of alcohol down his throat.

 

"To your health, darling," Draco said before winking impishly and adding, "Bottoms up. But that's for later, isn't it?"

 

Harry flushed momentarily at his lover's tease, watching as Draco tossed the shot back and swallowed as if it were water. Ron stared, agape. Many of the dinner guests had left, excusing themselves and bidding everyone a good night. A few of us, however, (Harry, Draco, Ron, Pansy, Luna, Neville, Fleur, and I) stayed behind as Draco ordered round after round of drinks. Somehow, he had ordered a shot of firewhisky for everyone present and demanded that they be consumed.

 

"You're a madman," Neville grunted, forcing down another shot. "Aren't we on our sixth round of drinks now?"

 

"Or an alcoholic," Luna stated baldly, slightly pink in the face and sounding even dreamier than usual, sipping delicately at hers.

 

"Or both," Pansy agreed, wincing as she swallowed hers, chasing it immediately with some horrid-looking pink juice she had in front of her. "Everyone knows Slytherins often tend to be both."

 

Ron cradled his shot glass in his giant hand like an egg, taking turns staring at the amber, horrible liquid and at me. He was acting stranger than usual and said nothing as he took his shot, his face as serious and glum as I'd ever seen it. 

 

"I believe that leaves the two of you," Harry said a bit loudly, eyes beginning to glass over as he jerked his head at me and Fleur.

 

"I can't," I said weakly. "I hate firewhisky."

 

Already, my hearing seemed a bit muted and time lagged on and off and, during one of the slower moments, I felt a hand brush my thigh. I was drunk, or getting there very quickly. Looking over to my left, I saw Fleur and suddenly remembered that she had moved to sit next to me. She wore the same amused expression she had been wearing since we kissed, and the fact that her hand was on my leg certainly must have been a contributing factor to the smile on her face and the vivid blush on mine. Her fingers drummed a gentle rhythm against my skin and I squirmed slightly, wanting to shift away and pull her painfully close at once. 

 

"What's the matter, Granger? Can't handle your liquor?" Pansy prodded, quirking an eyebrow at me.

 

With that, I gripped my shot glass in my hand and raised it, as if toasting her.

 

"To self-control and decorum," I said sharply. "May you someday learn the meaning of those words, Parkinson."

 

Fleur clinked her glass against mine and laughed, "To you, Hermione. That you may soon learn how overrated both of those things are."

 

Her hand slid higher and I sat up very straight to hide the shiver that wracked my spine and knocked my shot back as quickly as I could, hoping the liquor would brace me. Fleur raised the glass to her lips, the corner of her mouth tilting up in what must have been a self-satisfied smirk before she tipped the contents into her mouth and swallowed. She chased it with wine, to much applause.

 

"To the French," Draco slurred loudly, raising a large glass of some drink that was a sinister hue of green and sloshing a bit out. "Because they chase firewhisky with wine and can outdrink anyone!"

 

"Except the Irish!" Harry added as Ron suddenly roared his approval, banging on the table rowdily. 

 

I coughed into my hand, desperately wishing that the horrible taste and burn would leave me. Fleur sipped at her wine quietly, eyes twinkling as she kept stroking my thigh.

 

"Stop that," I hissed into her ear, leaning over clumsily and resting my cheek on her bare shoulder. 

 

"Pressing yourself against me is hardly incentive for me to stop," she murmured back. 

 

I groaned as the room wobbled a bit and her pinky snaked to the inside of my thigh. Her short, blunt nails drew nonsensical patterns and runes into my skin and I chewed my lip feverishly, grabbing her wrist. I thought, for a fleeting second, that she might have been drawing runes into my skin to make my blood come to a simmer. She paused, seeing if I would push her hand away. I didn't, instead running my hand up her arm to grip her bicep. 

 

"Fleur," I muttered, almost a moan by now, almost drunk, almost mad with desire. 

 

Fleur laughed, ducking her head and turning to press a kiss against my cheek, much to Pansy's chagrin.

 

"'S'matter, Pansy?" Draco demanded. "You look cheesed off."

 

"Yes, well," she drawled, not finishing her sentence and opting instead to glare at me.

 

I smirked, nuzzling Fleur's shoulder, refusing to break eye contact with Pansy. 

 

"Jealous?" I asked quietly.

 

Pansy snorted and continued to seethe visibly but quietly. This was far more satisfying than battering her with silverware. Fleur was chatting with Luna pleasantly, both of them quite flushed but still somehow the calmest of all of us. I remembered with a jolt that they had met before, during the war, when we stayed at Shell Cottage with Fleur and Bill; I remembered how Luna had immediately taken to Fleur the way she takes to everyone, that she liked to walk barefoot across the shore and pick up shells, that she made a shell bracelet for Fleur to show her thanks, that she helped Fleur make dinner. It was strange to suddenly remember and see the threads that bound Fleur to other parts of my life that I didn't know or, more often, simply forgot that she had touched before. The men had long ago removed their jackets and loosened their shirtnecks, rolling up their sleeves; Neville had his tie round his head like a headband. I shook my head fondly, regretting it the second I did because it sent the room tumbling. I topped off the glass of wine beside me and slid my hand down Fleur's spine, stopping at the small of her back. The room was still tilting slightly and it made me feel reckless, and Fleur's restless hand on my thigh was not helping matters in the slightest.

 

Taking a deep breath, I walked around the table to where Draco and Harry were sitting, grabbing another shot of firewhisky and downing it before anyone could tell me not to, coughing and sputtering afterward. I leaned down, whispering in Harry and Draco's ears, "I'm leaving" before turning and kissing them both quickly on the cheeks. Draco grinned cheekily at me, grabbing my wrist and yanking me into his lap briefly before covering my face with playful kisses.

 

"Be good," he crooned, eyes twinkling mischievously.

 

"Bugger off," I whispered, embarrassed.

 

"Oh, I think you'll be doing quite enough buggering tonight for the both of us," he giggled, delivering a sharp, playful slap to my rear even as I slid off of his lap in exasperation. 

 

I said a hasty goodbye to everyone else, dropping kisses here and there and, in my drunkenness, even pecking Pansy on the cheek.

 

"I am well and truly smashed!" Draco proclaimed, laughing delightedly.

 

"Have a good night, Granger," Pansy said dryly, examining her nails as if they were fascinating.

 

My heart racketed against my ribs and I looked at Fleur, who had gotten to her feet and was eyeing me with interest, something so feral in her eyes that it was nearly lupine. A small smile curved her lips as she extended her hand to me.

 

"I'll make sure of it," Fleur said quietly, gaze unwavering. 

 

I took her hand.

 

"Take me home," I murmured. 

 

\---

 

We walked into the lobby of the restaurant, waving a final goodbye to our friends. My heart fluttered like a panicked Snitch in my throat. Fleur smiled briefly, tugging at my hand to pull me forward as an image of her hair splayed out against dark sheets like moonbeams against a dark sky invaded my thoughts and momentarily rendered me immobile. 

 

"Shall I walk you home, then?" she asked, totally unassuming.

 

I looked around and, upon seeing the lobby mostly empty, backed her into the darkest corner I could find and kissed her savagely. Fleur hummed her approval when I drew her bottom lip between my teeth and bit down.

 

"That's not what I meant," I murmured, grabbing her hand.

 

With a crack, we disapparated. Apparating while drunk was probably one of my worse ideas, but when I felt her hand in mine and felt the solid brass of my front doorknob jamming into the small of my back as we apparated into the hallway of my apartment building with a crack, I was grateful that we didn't bother with walking. She looked as breathless and dizzy as I felt, but she grinned wickedly and pushed me against my door as I reached behind me to fumble with the lock. My fingers went limp around the doorknob as her tongue slid into my mouth. Reluctantly, I pulled away so as to focus, shivering at her quiet laugh and the way she pressed a kiss to the back of my neck. The door swung open and I tugged her inside just as she tugged my bun (which I had agonized over for at least an hour and with at least half a bottle of Sleekeazy's) free of its constraints. She tangled her fingers gently into my hair, forcing me to look up to meet her gaze again; I trembled beneath the heat of it. 

 

"Hermione," she murmured, searching my gaze. "Are you sure?"

 

I shook my head, seizing the lapels of her leather jacket in my hands and pulling her down until her lips were crushed beneath my kiss. A small noise escaped Fleur's throat as I backed her into the living room.

 

"Don't ask me that," I breathed between kisses, frowning and digging my nails into the nape of her neck as I pulled her close, and closer still.

 

She pulled away, rubbing her forehead against mine as if to smooth the wrinkles away. I looked up at her, at her unbelievable eyes so blue that they looked nearly like they were-

 

"Are your eyes _glowing?_ " I asked incredulously.

 

She laughed her quiet laugh, taking my hand and leading deeper still into my own apartment. 

 

"Don't ask me that," she replied, quirking an eyebrow at me.

 

I led her to my bedroom, feeling a sudden tremor race through my fingers as I pushed the door open. I looked at my bed and groaned, seeing Crookshanks perched upon my rumpled and unfolded sheets like a king, tail swishing. He looked up at me, disapproval clearly writ on his heavily whiskered face, and meowed.

 

"Crookshanks," I sighed. "Out."

 

He narrowed his eyes, hopping off of my bed daintily and skulking past Fleur. She stared after him, amused, as I closed the door.

 

"I've spoilt him," I said apologetically. "Oh god, my room is a mess. My bed isn't even- I'm so sorry. You aren't allergic to cats, are you? Because if you are, we can-"

 

She silenced me by leaning against me and pressing her lips to mine until, in shock, my legs weakened and carried me backwards so that the backs of my knees hit the edge of my bed and I sat down.  

 

"No, I'm not allergic to cats. And yes, my eyes are glowing. It's a veela thing and it's not important right now."

 

"Good," I murmured, reaching up to cup her face.

 

She kissed me again.There was nothing shy or exploratory about the kiss, and there was no preamble: Fleur's teeth flashed so sharply against my lip that I gasped and, blushing furiously, reflexively spread my legs. Fleur pressed forward and I tugged her hips against mine, writhing as I felt her skin burning between the thin layers of clothing that separated us. She groaned, tilting her head until our noses bumped and she laughed softly, pulling back before leaning in again and kissing me so deeply that I thought madly that my head was literally going to float off of my neck. Fleur's hands were firm on my face, and I was surprised that my death-grip hadn't shattered her pelvis, especially when I parted my lips and I felt her tongue swiping at my bottom lip and she twitched as I dug my nails into the flesh of her lower back. 

 

"Fleur, I-" I mumbled against her mouth, losing track of what I was saying when her mouth relocated to my neck, somehow automatically finding my pulse and the spot just slightly behind it that made butterflies come alive in my stomach. 

 

She stood in front of me, always the picture of serenity while my breathing became something that was suspiciously like a panic attack. I gulped air, eyes wide as she reached out and touched my face, palm flattening against my cheek gently as her fingers tickled my ear.

 

"We don't have to do anything you don't want to do," she said, playfulness gone. "I won't push you. Do you trust me?"

 

_I don't know. Yes. No. Yes. I don't know. God, she's beautiful._

 

I looked up at her and nodded, taking her hands and tugging her toward me. Smiling, Fleur straddled my lap, her dress riding up high on her thighs, and sank her hands into my hair. I groaned, craning my neck to kiss her and she complied, smiling against my mouth as she met my desperation with a slow, lazy kiss. I groaned louder and she pulled away, her smile deepening. She kissed my ear, nipping sharply at the lobe before turning her attentions to my neck. I slid my hands underneath her dress and she made a small, incoherent noise as she arched against me in a movement so immediate that it might have been a reflex. 

 

"I trust you," I murmured.

 

She laughed deep her in throat, reaching for me. 

 

"Good."

 

We toppled backwards onto the mattress. After that, the kisses became an undulating blur.

 

 

 

—-

 

 

I awoke to an empty bed and a dull thudding behind my eyes. Puzzled, I sat up slowly, feeling my dress from the night before bunching uncomfortably around my hips. I tugged my fingers through my tangled hair and gingerly swung my legs over the edge of the bed. 

 

_Oh god, I went home with Fleur last night. What happened?_

 

Standing, I made my way out of my bedroom and into the kitchen, finding Fleur humming quietly to herself over the stove.

 

“Fleur,” I said, voice scratchy. 

 

She turned, smiling calmly at me, wearing nothing but a smile and an oversized Gryffindor t-shirt that I’d had hanging on the back of an armchair in my bedroom. 

 

“Good morning, Hermione,” she said pleasantly, swooping in and kissing me without warning.

 

I pushed lightly against her chest, returning the kiss, hesitant but wanting more all the same. 

 

“I, erm…did we…?” I began, gesturing vaguely between us. 

 

She raised her eyebrows at me. 

 

“No,” she laughed, “I’m not the sort to take advantage.”

 

I was almost disappointed.

 

“That’s…kind of you,” I struggled to say, watching the muscles in her legs flex as she pivoted and returned her attentions to the crepes she was making. 

 

Something was different about her; she seemed lighter, brighter…happier. Or maybe it was me, and I was projecting. 

 

 _Those damn legs._  

 

“It has nothing to do with kindness, Hermione,” she said, folding strawberries gently into a crepe before placing a healthy dollop of Nutella inside. “It was just too soon. Besides, I want you to be fully aware the first time.”

 

 _The first time._ Said so calmly and confidently that I might have bristled had I not wanted it desperately. 

 

Fleur waved her hand and the clutter on my kitchen table rearranged itself so she could set down the plates in her hands. She gestured for me to have a seat, so I did, beginning to help myself to my crepe.

 

“Thank you for breakfast,” I said after swallowing the first delicious mouthful of perfect, paper-thin crepe.

 

“You’re quite welcome. Thank you for last night; you’re quite the kisser,” she replied.

 

I blushed.

 

“Why me?” I asked quietly, nervous to meet her gaze.

 

She stared back at me and reached forward, brushing her thumb against my lip.

 

“Why _not_ you?” 

 

 

The next few hours passed in a haze of kissing: kissing in the kitchen, kissing on the couch, kissing in bed, kissing against a wall. I didn’t ask her to leave because I wanted her to stay, but eventually she bid me adieu, saying something about having to go home to take a potion. 

 

The second I closed the door behind her, I already missed her. I missed the heat of her body against mine. My head was a fluttering mess; I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this way about anyone. 

 

 

—-

 

 

“So,” Draco began, peering over his cup of tea at me. 

 

“So,” I replied primly, biting into a scone delicately.

 

“Last night,” he egged on.

 

“Was lovely. Very happy for you and Harry,” I dodged. 

 

“So you and Fleur-“

 

“It’s none of your business,” I said, eyeing him sideways. 

 

Draco whined, pouting at me. 

 

“You’re no fun,” he mumbled resentfully. 

 

“I don’t kiss and tell.”

 

Because I didn’t have the words to tell it; being of a world filled with magic, describing it as “magical” seemed trite. But it _was_ magical- it was like the first time I levitated a feather, the first time I accidentally cast magic by arresting the fall of one of my mother’s vases. Everything about Fleur was eye-opening and full of wonder, and I was speechless at every turn. And terrified. 

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleur leaves.

Chapter 7

Fleur

 

 

Hermione slept with her lips slightly parted, the tiniest of snores slipping through every few moments. It was endearing, and the second I left her flat I missed her. I missed the way her waist felt beneath my hands, the way she made tiny noises in the back of her throat when I bit down on her lip as we kissed. My heart thudded excitedly every time I thought about it, and I walked to my own flat as if in a trance; I felt as though light itself were singing through my veins. 

 

Once I arrived at my flat, I took my potion, and even that seemed far easier than usual. Years of chasing after Hermione had finally paid off: she spent the night in my arms, kissing like literally nothing else around us mattered. I remembered her fingers tangling in my hair, her body writhing against mine. I remembered her dozing off only to wake up and begin the kissing anew, a cycle which repeated itself until I finally kissed her good night and pressed myself against her back and held her until she fell fully asleep. Sleeping in my dress was not the most comfortable choice, but when I awoke in the morning with a plan to cook breakfast already fully hatched, I took some liberties and donned an old, oversized, nearly ratty Gryffindor nightshirt that Crookshanks had curled up on. The next few hours had passed in a haze of very little conversation but plenty of kissing. 

 

I set my empty potion bottle on my windowsill, shuddering as the foul taste coated my tongue and made its way like tar down my esophagus and into my stomach. I automatically reached for my cigarettes to wash out the taste in my mouth but hesitated, recalling Hermione’s distaste for the habit; if any more snogging was to be our future, perhaps it would be for the best to forego the cigarettes. I frowned a little, but set the pack down and reached for a mint instead.

 

 

—-

 

“So,” Draco began impishly, fluttering his surprisingly long eyelashes at me, “are you and Hermione a thing now, or what?”

 

The question took me aback because I honestly didn’t know the answer. I hadn’t seen or heard from Hermione since I left her flat yesterday morning, and I was concerned and excited to see her again. Draco smirked at me, stirring cream viciously into his tea. 

 

“I guess we’ll see then, given as Hermione does love Sunday tea and is due any minute now with the boys,” he grinned.

 

“Sunday tea, then? It’s a regular thing?” I asked.

 

“Well, of course. You’ve got to cap off your week end with something relaxing and pleasant, haven’t you?”

 

I chewed my lip, looking towards the door for a familiar head of wavy brown hair. After a few minutes of absent-minded conversation with Draco, I spotted them: to this day, Hermione, Harry, and Ron were hardly ever apart. Ron’s shock of red hair was what alerted me to their presence as he stood shoulder to shoulder with Harry with Hermione trailing timidly behind. She peeked out from behind Harry and met my gaze, instantly turning red.

 

“Fleur,” she said softly.

 

“Hermione,” I replied, smiling at her. 

 

She smiled back nervously, flinching a little as I leaned in to peck her on the lips before taking the seat opposite mine. I frowned slightly, trying to meet her gaze only for her to avert her gaze every time. I crossed my legs, allowing my foot to brush her calf and watched as Hermione jumped as if shocked. 

 

“Is everything alright?” I asked her quietly, grateful for the energetic conversation the boys were having. “You’re acting strange.”

 

“We need to talk,” she mumbled. “Alone.”

 

I passed the remainder of Sunday tea watching Hermione squirm in her seat and avoid making eye contact. We began to say our goodbyes when I grabbed her arm and pulled her aside saying, “Gentlemen, I need to borrow Hermione for a bit.”

 

Draco laughed loudly and wolf-whistled, wilting only slightly at Hermione’s pointed glare. Hermione gently tugged her arm out of my grasp and walked with me to my flat, where we could converse in privacy. I let her in, watching as the various portraits in my gallery wall began to flutter from frame to frame, whispering to each other. She sat in an armchair, clutching the arms as if to stable herself. 

 

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

 

“About the other night,” she began, looking around nervously as a portrait of Gabrielle glared at her from the wall, “I just…It can’t happen again.”

 

I felt as though a ball of ice had settled in my gut. 

 

“I beg your pardon?” I said dumbly.

 

“Fleur, I…” she sighed, clenching her fists. “I really like you. And I shouldn’t. I’m not…I’m not like you. I’m not interested in you like that. Part of me is, but the rest isn’t. And I’m just not sure if pursuing this any further would be fair to either of us.”

 

I reeled back as if struck. 

 

“ _You_ took _me_ home,” I reminded her accusingly. 

 

“I know, and it was a mistake. I was entirely too drunk. And it was nice. You were…so kind, and good, and gentle, and patient, but I just…”

 

I sat down hard on my sofa, like a puppet whose strings had just been cut. I fumbled for my cigarettes and lit one, watching Hermione’s nose crinkle in distaste. 

 

“Those are horrible-” she began.

 

“So the other night was, what? Nothing? A mistake?” I asked, taking deep drags.

 

She bit her lip, looking around hopelessly like she half expected an answer to fall into her lap.

 

“It was…nice. But it can’t happen again. I’d like to be friends with you, Fleur, but that’s all it can be. I’m not…gay. I’ve never even thought about any woman like that until you.”

 

“Why are you so afraid of being gay?” I asked, bewildered. 

 

Not too long ago, she’d backed me against the wall of her kitchen and kissed me deeply, tasting of strawberries and Nutella. She’d clambered into my lap in an armchair and straddled me, kissing me hungrily and like her life depended on it, fingers curled into the night shirt I had borrowed from her as the sun peeked around her curtains at us.

 

“I’m not,” she snapped defensively. “I’m not afraid of it. I’m just not. I think I just…I don’t know. I fell under your thrall or something. I _do_ like you, Fleur, I _do_. Just not like that.”

 

She was lying through her teeth and I knew it, I could feel it coming off of her in waves of nervous energy. She jiggled her foot restlessly and chewed her lip and twirled her hair; her body language was enough to communicate the truth beneath her lies.

 

“I’m just not interested in you that way, and I’m sorry if I led you to believe otherwise, but I know I’m not. I know a lot of things, but whether or not I could ever be with a woman, let alone _you_ , is not one of them. I just need…can we just be friends?” 

 

Her eyes were brimming with tears that were just barely clinging to her lashes and I shrugged, exhaling a large cloud of smoke. 

 

“Friends,” I said flatly.

 

“Fleur-”

 

“No, you’re done talking. I understand, and I apologize. My thrall and your drinks got the best of you, and that’s all it was. I get it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to do…anything else.”

 

“Fleur, please, I’m sorry. Please don’t be cross with me; I can’t help it that I’m not-”

 

“No one can help but be who or what they are, Hermione. Believe me, I understand that better than most.”

 

I stood, walking to my front door and opening it.

 

“Good afternoon, Hermione,” I said, heart sinking as she stood and made her way out of my flat.

 

—

 

Sleep eluded me. All I could think about was how well Hermione’s body fit against mine that night. Thoughts of her consumed me, and I could feel the veela inside of me purr every time I thought about kissing her again. Work passed by in a blur of paperwork, and I declined Draco’s invitations to meet them for dinner or coffee or drinks after work, making up excuses about a backlog of paperwork that I didn’t have. I spent my nights at home nursing cigarettes and firewhisky, trying to keep my mind void of thoughts of Hermione because every time I thought about her eyelashes or how she snored a little in her sleep, the veela in me stirred and made my chest tighten unpleasantly. I was so tired, and Hermione’s rejection made my potion even more bitter than it already was. Still, I took it religiously. 

 

Friday had finally rolled round and I was subject to Draco’s cross examination. 

 

“It’s like you’re avoiding us!” he pouted after I had given in to his request of meeting for drinks after work. 

 

“I’ve just been very busy, is all,” I said quietly, looking down the crooked, cobbled streets of Diagon Alley and hoping that Harry, Ron, and Hermione weren’t on their way like he’d said.

 

“Busy avoiding us,” he reiterated. “What’s going on, Fleur?”

 

“Things with Hermione have hit a…snag,” I mumbled, stirring my tea.

 

“Yes, I’ve noticed she’s been acting strangely lately,” he answered, waving in the distance at the three who were fast approaching. “I’ve tried talking some sense into her, but Merlin knows she can be as thick as she is brilliant.”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

To my surprise, Hermione took the seat directly next to me, smiling shyly.

 

“Fleur,” she said by way of greeting.

 

“Hermione.”

 

She reached over and took my hand and I felt as though I’d been stupefied.

 

“What are you-”

 

“I’ve been a right git,” she said, averting her eyes as her voice wavered. “I’m sorry. I just…I panicked. I’ve been thinking about it and I honestly don’t know what I was so afraid of. I mean, my best friends are gay. I just…you upturned everything that I thought I knew about myself.”

 

I stared at her blankly, surprised by her confession. 

 

“Hermione-”

 

“I’m still talking, please let me finish. I just…it’s new to me, you know? It wasn’t something that I’d ever considered for myself and it isn’t something that I know a whole lot about, so I had to go and…do some research into it.”

 

“Research?” I mouthed almost silently. 

 

“It’s what I do,” she said sheepishly. “You’ve no idea how sick Harry and Draco must be of me by now, after picking their brains all week.”

 

“With a fine-toothed comb,” Draco sighed, rolling his eyes playfully. 

 

“So, we are…?” I asked.

 

“Friends?” she asked hopefully. “Maybe more? In time.”

 

I blushed, warmth spreading through my face and chest and body as her hand squeezed mine. I intertwined our fingers, giving her hand a return squeeze.

 

“Alright, then. We can start at friends.”

 

 

—-

 

 

“Fleur,” she moaned, fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt as she tugged me close. “This was not quite what I thought you meant when you said we could start as friends.”

 

I leaned away from her, out of reach of her lips, and smirked at the tiny whimper that escaped her throat.

 

“Should I stop, then?” I whispered, lips a hair’s breadth away from hers.

 

“Don’t you dare,” she growled, releasing my shirt and tangling her fingers possessively in my hair.

 

—-

 

 

Two weeks flew by in a feverish blur of kisses, of hands delicately exploring hips and legs and breasts. Every time we kissed, I felt a sweet, deep heat blooming inside of my body. I began to feel like I was living in between kisses, always waiting eagerly for the next to fall against my lips, waiting for the feel of her strong fingers twining into my hair, waiting for the clean smell of her perfume to sweep over me as she leaned in. Our conversations were long, always punctuated by laughs and kisses and probably obscene amounts of cuddling on her couch. It was nice, if unexpected. I knew what it was to pine for her, to long for her nearly to the point of breaking; I didn’t know how to be with her. I’d spent years aching for her and fantasizing of her touch, but to actually live the reality made my head spin. Sometimes, the spinning was none too pleasant. Recently, I’d had to double my potions dosages to keep the spinning and exhaustion at bay. However, I was far too pleased with how things had been progressing with Hermione to really care. 

 

Hermione lounged on my sofa like a pleased lioness, lips kiss-bruised and shirt rumpled as I packed my bag.

 

“So you’re going back to France again?” she pouted.

 

“Yes, I must. I go back at the end of each month to visit my family,” I lied easily. “I miss them. Especially Gabrielle.”

 

Missing my family was no lie, especially missing Gabrielle, but I was tempted to skip this visit and spend the night with Hermione instead. I’d been under the impression that being with Hermione would have made things easier, but things had been more difficult. Every kiss made me feel hungrier and more desperate for her than I knew I could feel and it tugged at something inside of me that made the veela stir unpleasantly, leaving pinpricks in its wake. 

 

“Can I come with you?” Hermione asked, watching as I folded a sweater by hand and dropped it into my bag.

 

“Not this time,” I said hesitantly. “I go partly to visit my ailing grandmother; it’s a family affair, really.”

 

She nodded understandingly.

 

“I’m so sorry to hear about your grandmother, Fleur. You’ve never mentioned her before, or that she was ill.”

 

“She’ll outlive us all, I’m sure of it,” I laughed lightly. 

 

Hermione looked around, and her eye stopped at a trophy on one of my many shelves.

 

“You played quidditch?” she asked quizzically, watching as I dropped a pair of trousers into my bag.

 

“Of course. Beauxbatons does more than ribbon dance, you know,” I laughed.

 

“Seeker?” she asked, eyeing me up and down.

 

“Beater, actually.” 

 

Her eyes widened comically.

 

“You’re a little…slight to be a beater, aren’t you?” 

 

“Turns out that a lot of pent up lesbian rage does wonders with a bat.”

 

We laughed, Hermione repeatedly whispering “pent up lesbian rage” until she was gasping with tears. A quick clench in my chest had me quickly doubled over and gasping for air, hand clutching at my heart.

 

“Fleur!” Hermione cried, leaping up and by my side at once. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing,” I replied quickly, too quickly perhaps. “I just…strange sensation, is all. Nothing to worry about.”

 

I was leaving in the morning, and I was almost tempted to leave sooner because my attacks had made a sudden and unwelcome resurgence. But I was so loath to leave Hermione so soon. She ran a comforting hand up my back and down again, rubbing soothing circles. 

 

“Come, sit,” she bid, pulling me towards her on the sofa. 

 

“Hermione, I’ve really got to pack-”

 

Her lips on mine silenced me more quickly than any charm ever could.

 

—-

 

I awoke with a start, heart slamming around my ribcage like a wild animal trying to escape. My skin prickled and itched, and I felt hot and nauseous. Flailing about, I rolled over to my nightstand and yanked the drawer open, groping for a vial of my potion. Sweat ran in turrets from my temples and down my back and I felt relief only when I seized a full vial of potion. Uncorking it, I swallowed it down as quickly as I could, fighting my usual grimace and chugging and praying it would kick in the sooner I gulped it down. I laid flat on my back on my bed, waves of pain radiating from my core to my extremities, skin prickling all the while. I prayed for relief, for anything to make it stop. Minutes, though it felt like days, later the pain ebbed. I took a deep breath, soaked in my own sweat, and laid back down to sleep.

 

—-

 

 

“I’ll see you soon, then?” Hermione said quietly, holding my hand as Draco and Harry puttered about in their kitchen and cleaned up after the lunch they’d made for us.

 

I grimaced. I was still sore from my attack the night before and I felt another creeping in. 

 

“Yes, soon,” I choked, clenching my free fist to stop it clutching at my thundering heart. 

 

“You’re still not feeling well,” she observed, despite my efforts.

 

“No, long-distance apparition just makes me anxious, is all.”

 

I trembled, reaching for Hermione’s waist. I leaned my forehead against hers.

 

“You don’t need to lie to me, Fleur,” she whispered, tucking my hair behind my ears. 

 

“I’m sorry, it’s just not time yet,” I mumbled, kissing her lightly on the lips before pulling away. 

 

A pain like a hand reaching through my back to scratch at my ribs seized me and I shuddered, reeling away from Hermione.

 

“Soon,” I said. 

 

I walked home, skin prickling and chest aching and heavy as I left Hermione behind me. I missed her already; I’d grown so accustomed to her almost constant company that the thought of leaving her behind made me almost nauseous. However, when I reached my flat, I realized that it wasn’t leaving Hermione that was making me nauseous. 

 

I felt the feathers break through my skin just as I began to disapparate.

 

—-

 

I landed a bloodied, feathered heap at my mother’s doorstep, too weak to stand. I pointed my wand at my throat and cried, “Mother, Gabrielle! Someone, please!”

 

My magnified voice made the nearby leaves of a bush tremble and soon, my father flung open the door.

 

“Fleur!” he cried, dropping to his knees at once to pick me up.

 

He turned and drew me into the house, heading towards the staircase no doubt to bring me to my room when my grandmother burst into the hallway.

 

“ _Non!_ She must be brought down to to the cellar at once!”

 

She flicked her wand and I levitated out of my father’s protective arms; she knew he wouldn’t surrender me so easily. With a few more flicks, I was floating limply down the stairs and into the cellar, whether darkness and stone awaited me. I groaned.

 

“Fleur, what happened?” she demanded, setting me down gently on the slab of magical rock I knew all too well.

 

“I don’t know,” I sobbed as manacles slid around my wrists to hold me fast. “I don’t know. Nothing makes sense. I thought things were supposed to get easier once we were together.”

 

My grandmother smoothed her hand over my sweat-soaked hair. 

 

“There are things you need to know, my love, but it is not time yet.”

 

“Not time for _what_?” I asked, allowing her to tip my head back and feed me my potion, this time in a much larger dose than was normal.

 

She shook her head sadly.

 

“It is forbidden for me to tell you the end stages of veela courtship, you know that. You can only know when the time has come.”

 

I wept, the chains feeling heavier than normal, the rock feeling colder and darker, the future seeming dimmer by the minute.

 

 

—-

 

My head felt like an oversaturated sponge, and it throbbed furiously. My feathers were matted down with the blood they drew as they pierced my skin to escape. I was tired of struggling against the chains like I had been for hours now, but too angry to stop. I was _hungry_. A memory struck me, pinging off of the side of my head like a Snitch: Hermione laughing at something I’d said. The hunger swelled until it was almost unbearable, and in my rage I felt my beak open and close with a loud snap.

 

“She’s so far gone,” I heard my grandmother say from a careful distance. “I’ve never seen her fully transformed like this.”

 

I heard quiet sniffling and my head whipped around, yellow eyes slicing through the darkness to see Gabrielle quietly weeping.

 

“I thought it was supposed to get better once they were together; was that all a lie? What’s happening to Fleur?” she asked.

 

I watched as my grandmother gently placed her hand on Gabrielle’s shoulder as her only answer. I screamed, watching them flinch. 

 

“Fleur, stop!” Gabrielle cried.

 

I tilted my head to the side, curious, and snapped my beak at her.

 

“She can’t be reasoned with. You’re nothing but a smaller, weaker animal to her in this state: prey.”

 

Something dark looked back at me from my grandmother’s eyes, something ancient and primal. 

 

“Fully transformed veela can only focus on one thing: their quarry.”

 

 _Hungry._ I was so damned hungry. 

 

“Maybe Hermione isn’t the right one either, then,” Gabrielle muttered, stepping backwards as I snapped at her again.

 

_Hermione._

 

Memories of Hermione tore through my mind like lightning and I roared for freedom, yanking on the chains as hard as I could. Flashes of the russet brown of her eyes swam in my vision, I could hear her laugh echoing inside my skull, I could feel her lips against mine. The stone creaked but did not give. 

 

_Hermione._

 

The mere mention of her name set my skin ablaze and I cawed and screamed and screeched in whatever tongue my beak would allow, begging for freedom and threatening violence, whatever it took to set me free. 

 

“Oh, I think she is,” my grandmother said cryptically.

 

I had to get to Hermione. I needed her. The veela needed her, wanted her. I wanted to kiss her, to wrap her in my arms, and to bury my beak in the warm flesh of her belly to rip out her entrails and eat them. I _needed_ her. 

 


End file.
